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Her Forever Man
“The name LEANNE BANKS signifies the very best in romance.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
SILHOUETTE DESIRE IS PROUD TO PRESENT A BRAND-NEW MINISERIES BY BESTSELLING AUTHOR LEANNE BANKS
The legendary Logans face their greatest challenge, each seeking a love that lasts forever….
Her Forever Man (SD #1267)
The Doctor Wore Spurs (SD #1280)
Expecting His Child (SD #1292)
Don’t miss any of these Silhouette Desire novels!
Dear Reader,
Please join us in celebrating Silhouette’s 20th anniversary in 2000! We promise to deliver—all year—passionate, powerful, provocative love stories from your favorite Desire authors!
This January, look for bestselling author Leanne Banks’s first MAN OF THE MONTH with Her Forever Man. Watch sparks fly when irresistibly rugged ranch owner Brock Logan comes face-to-face with his new partner, the fiery Felicity Chambeau, in the first book of Leanne’s brand-new miniseries LONE STAR FAMILIES: THE LOGANS.
Desire is pleased to continue the Silhouette cross-line continuity ROYALLY WED with The Pregnant Princess by favorite author Anne Marie Winston. After a night of torrid passion with a stranger, a beautiful princess ends up pregnant…and seeks out the father of her child.
Elizabeth Bevarly returns to Desire with her immensely popular miniseries FROM HERE TO MATERNITY with Dr. Mommy, about a couple reunited by a baby left on a doorstep. Hard Lovin’ Man, another of Peggy Moreland’s TEXAS BRIDES, captures the intensity of falling in love when a cowgirl gives her heart to a sweet-talkin’, hard-lovin’ hunk. Cathleen Galitz delivers a compelling marriage-of-convenience tale in The Cowboy Takes a Bride, in the series THE BRIDAL BID. And Sheri WhiteFeather offers another provocative Native American hero in Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave.
Help us celebrate 20 years of great romantic fiction from Silhouette by indulging yourself with all six delectably sensual Desire titles each and every month during this special year!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Her Forever Man
Leanne Banks
Special acknowledgment and thanks to Susan Macias for lighting a candle for me when things got a little dark and to the TCU School of Ranch Management for educating me about the cattle business.
This book is dedicated to two groups of fabulous ladies I’m blessed to know: The Relay for Life Pink Ribbon Runners and the Desire Loop.
LEANNE BANKS
is a national number-one bestselling author of romance. She lives in her native Virginia with her husband, son and daughter. Recognized for both her sensual and humorous writing with two Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times Magazine, Leanne likes creating a story with a few grins, a generous kick of sensuality and characters that hang around after the book is finished. Leanne believes romance readers are the best readers in the world because they understand that love is the greatest miracle of all. You can write to her at P.O. Box 1442, Midlothian, VA 23113. A SASE for a reply would be greatly appreciated.
Four generations ago, the Logan family moved west from Virginia and took a scrap of Texas land. Despite droughts and floods, broken hearts and death, the Logans now own one of the most successful cattle ranches in Texas.
The Logans have power, brains and strength. Some call their ongoing success a legacy. The Logans would instead point to hard work, persistence and plain old American ingenuity. When it comes to matters of the heart, however, they refer to their inheritance as a curse. The Logans face their greatest challenge in breaking that curse, and finding a love that lasts forever….
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
All Brock Logan wanted was a smooth-running ranch, security for his children, and peace.
He wasn’t interested in excitement or the foolishness of romance. He’d experienced the curse of passion firsthand when his ex-wife left him with a broken heart and two kids to raise. He thought of his kids and inhaled a breath of air tinged with the metallic scent of impending rain. Thank God for his son and daughter.
All he really wanted was peace. Standing on the wooden porch of the sprawling home his forefathers had built and he had expanded, he eyed the dark, angry-looking clouds coming in from the north. He crumpled the fax in his fist as uneasiness curled in his gut.
“We could use the rain,” his younger brother Tyler said, joining Brock on the porch. “But I couldn’t tell it from your face.”
“We don’t need a quick storm. We need a long, soaking rain. We don’t need a flighty visitor, either,” he muttered, glancing at the fax in his hand.
“Visitor,” Tyler echoed. “Who’s that fax from?”
Brock’s stomach tightened again. “Greg Roberts, our attorney.” Wuss attorney, he thought. Brock knew Greg had faxed instead of called to avoid Brock’s wrath. Brock had wanted to dissolve the silly silent partner agreement years ago, but Greg had dragged his feet. “He says our silent partner’s paying us a visit.”
Tyler blinked. “Silent partner? Not the Chambeaus?”
“Chambeau,” Brock corrected and narrowed his eyes. “There’s only one Chambeau left. Felicity Chambeau.” He unfolded the fax and reread it. “Her attorney contacted Greg and told him she would like to visit the dwelling set aside as part of the contractual agreement between her great-great-grandfather and our great-great-grandfather.”
Tyler frowned in confusion. “Isn’t that dwelling where the foreman is living?”
Brock nodded and pulled his hat off his head. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Yep, and since he’s a product of TCU Ranch Management School, I want to keep him happy. This could be a rough calving season since the Coltrane bull sowed his oats in one of my pastures. Looks like it’s gonna be rough in more than one way.”
“Where’s she going to stay?”
Brock kissed his peace goodbye. “In the house. There’s no decent hotels in Blackstone,” he said, referring to the closest town.
Tyler chuckled. “Maybe she’ll liven things up around here.”
Brock glowered at his brother. “I don’t need to have things livened up.”
All Felicity Chambeau wanted was to give away half of her money, she thought as she wearily stared out the window of her cab at the unfamiliar terrain. She knew her money was useless sitting in the bank gaining interest, and she had reached the conclusion that it was her purpose in life to give it away to a worthy cause. Besides, she wanted off that blasted list. The one that, without fail, annually listed the fifty wealthiest women in America. As long as she was on the stupid list, she might as well be wearing a bull’s-eye for every opportunistic male acquainted with the knowledge of her wealth.
Although she hadn’t excelled at anything else in life, surely this couldn’t be that difficult. Somehow, however, she’d bungled this, too.
Her attorneys had recommended she go somewhere quiet until some of the scandal died down and they made progress with the legal proceedings. When Felicity thought of quiet, she pictured a nice little château in the south of France. Her attorneys preferred something in the south, but more domestic should she need to testify. Texas.
It might as well have been a foreign country to her. Accustomed to a Manhattan skyline, she found the endless flat plain and swollen gray skies desolate and too quiet. Even the cab driver was quiet. The quiet made her want to run.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and leaned back in her seat. Maybe all her running had gotten her into trouble. After her parents had died, she’d run from one charity event to the next. Stay busy, avoid the pain, don’t look in the mirror, dodge the loss, shake the emptiness and the rootless feeling in her life. Running was easier. She’d run into the open arms of her financial advisor Douglas. She’d trusted Douglas, believed him, and he had left the country with a tidy portion of her money and an exotic dancer named Chi Chi. All of this caused quite a scandal, and although she was far from broke, she felt very close to broken.
She swallowed the bitter taste of shame on her tongue. She was more disappointed in herself than in Doug. All her running had led her nowhere. Opening her eyes, she glanced at the endless flat plain. Now, she was in Nowhere, Texas.
Maybe it was time to stop running.
Maybe it was time to face Felicity.
The prospect filled her with apprehension. Most of her life she’d felt alone. Doug wasn’t the only man who’d taught her that no man would ever love her for herself, so she might as well give up the idea of getting married. That was fine, but she still wanted off that infernal list. After that, what would be left?
Felicity would be stuck with Felicity.
Her stomach twisted in fear. What if she didn’t like what she saw in the mirror? What if she didn’t like what she learned about herself? What if she came up lacking? Felicity took a careful, determined breath and narrowed her eyes. If she didn’t like what she learned, then perhaps somehow, she’d find a way to change.
The monotony of the setting might be good, she mused. There would obviously be no distractions.
One
He was big.
With the rain falling in sheets and her cab driver honking his horn, Felicity stood on the Logans’ front porch and met the unwelcome laser-blue gaze of a tall, muscular man. It was more than height; everything about him looked overwhelmingly strong—starting with his jaw. His shoulders were broad, his large hands rested on narrow denim-clad hips that emphasized his powerful thighs and long legs. He looked like a no-nonsense, hard-nosed man who wouldn’t put up with any foolishness, let alone a down-on-her-luck woman from New York.
Thunder cracked through the air, and Felicity flinched. She’d never liked thunderstorms. She took a careful breath and tried to smile. “Hello, I’m Felicity Chambeau.” She didn’t offer her hand. He might crush it. Ridiculous thought, but it was dark, she was tired, and he was just so big.
“You’re early,” he said, his gaze falling over her.
In her damp state, Felicity felt certain she came up short in his assessment. “I—I—” She clamped her mouth shut. She might have her share of shortcomings, but stuttering because a big man was giving her a hard glance wasn’t one of them. “My attorneys contacted your attorney several times during the last few weeks. It’s such a dreary evening. I don’t want to impose. If you could just direct me to my quarters…”
“My foreman, his wife, their two kids and one-week-old baby are in your quarters.”
Felicity blinked. “Oh.”
“I could ask them to move somewhere else,” he said.
“Oh, no,” Felicity said, at a loss. “You can’t do that.”
He nodded. “You’ll stay here.”
With him? Felicity swallowed. He appeared as pleased about the prospect as she felt. “And you are Mr. Logan?”
“Brock Logan,” he said, turning his head slightly.
She saw the scar on his cheek, a bold jagged stroke about an inch long that might upset an artist, but made Felicity curious. He whistled at the cab driver and firmly pointed toward the porch. Her driver swiftly unloaded her three suitcases, hanging bag and carryon bag.
Felicity paid the driver and glanced up to catch Brock Logan staring at her luggage in dismay, then rubbing his hand over his forehead.
He took a step forward, and she instinctively stepped backward. He took another step forward which she matched in the opposite direction. He narrowed his eyes, and she took one more step. But there was no ground beneath her foot.
“Oh, no!” She fell, silently cursing the clumsiness that had dogged her every year she’d been on this earth, but strong hands stopped her from hitting her knees. Her face mere inches from the apex of his thighs, she swallowed at the nearness of his masculinity encased in worn denim. He smelled of clean musk and leather. He was unabashedly male, and Felicity was accustomed to men who cloaked their gender in gentler, more ambiguous, contemporary ways. She closed her eyes to get her bearings. Heaven help her, this was not a good start.
His hands lifted her, pulling her up, almost skimming the length of his frame. Felicity’s heart pounded with apprehension and something else she couldn’t name. His hands were firm yet gentle. There would be no bruises from his touch.
For one sliver of a second, she felt the rare impact of controlled strength in his fingers and glimpsed something even more rare in his eyes. Honor. Felicity hadn’t thought that quality existed anymore. Her stomach took another dip.
“Thank you,” she managed in a whisper.
He shrugged and released her, then, grabbing the three suitcases, he swept through the door. “This way,” he said.
She forced her feet to move, climbing a curved wooden staircase with a brass banister. She moved quickly, catching blurred impressions of the house; space, soft light, polished wood, warmth. Photographs and portraits lined the walls of the stairway, and Felicity immediately absorbed the strong sense of family tradition.
“Breakfast at 6:00 a.m.,” Brock said, “dinner at 6:00 p.m., lunch on your own. If you make a meal in the kitchen, clean up after yourself. My housekeeper’s touchy about messes she doesn’t make.”
In other words, don’t expect chocolates on the pillow, she thought, following him into a small bedroom with an antique double bed, dresser, bureau and nightstand. He flicked on the bedside lamp. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”
“Your home is lovely.” She stroked the cherry wood of the dresser. “The furniture isn’t western.”
“My ancestors were from Virginia.”
Felicity nodded. “Your wife or decorator did a marvelous job with—”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said bluntly, his eyes turning hard. “I do have two kids, though. Bree and Jacob aren’t known for being quiet, but I’ll tell them to stay out of your way. My brother Tyler is a doctor, but he’s here as often as he is in town. My sister Martina is in Chicago working for a computer company, but she can stop in at any moment. Our housekeeper’s name is Addie. She keeps things running smoothly, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her.”
Felicity digested the information and nodded. “I’ll try not to get in the way,” she said.
His gaze, full of doubt, fell over her. “If you decide to go for a walk, stay away from the bull pen.” He paused a half beat. “And the men’s quarters.”
Felicity nodded and glanced around the room. Was there anywhere she could go? She smiled. “I’m glad I’ve got a window in my room.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Yeah.”
The man clearly did not have a Texas-sized sense of humor. She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the intensity in his blue eyes.
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It depends on my lawyers’ recommendation and what I decide. I had thought the quarters would provide some needed solitude, but…” She shrugged.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Your lawyers’ recommendation?”
“Yes.” She thought of the mess she’d left behind in New York and felt suddenly tired. “Too complicated for this hour. Thank you for your hospitality. You’ve truly extended yourself this evening.”
He watched her for a long uncomfortable moment. “Do you have any family at all?”
Felicity felt the all-encompassing aloneness close in on her again. She stiffened herself against it. “No, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m okay.” If she kept saying it, it would one day be true.
He nodded, but didn’t looked convinced. That was fine, she told herself. It was far more important that she convince herself.
She met his gaze and felt a strange undertow of recognition, as if something inside her recognized something inside him. She would almost swear she saw that same recognition in his eyes. Her heart shifted.
“Just a minute,” he said, breaking the moment and stepping into the hallway. A moment later, he returned and set bath towels and washcloths on the dresser. “If you want to take a shower, you can. The kids are asleep.”
Felicity smiled and finished his thought. “So don’t sing in the shower.”
His lips twitched almost to a grin. “Yeah.” He looked at her again, and she wondered what he saw; wondered, but wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Restless, she clasped her hands together. “Thank you for opening your home to me at such short notice.”
He dipped his head. “Good night, Felicity Chambeau.”
“Good night, Brock Logan.”
He closed the door behind him, and she was alone again, an all-too-familiar feeling. She glanced at the bed and promised herself to sleep for twenty-four hours. She vowed not to dream about anything that would disturb her, such as a disapproving financial attorney, a cockroach former financial advisor, or a tall rancher with sexy eyes and a humor deficit.
Brock still smelled her perfume after he’d showered in the master bathroom and drunk a shot of bourbon. She wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured. With a name like Felicity, he’d expected a more frivolous-looking female. Instead, her black pantsuit had whispered over her slim curves with understated ease. Her straight blond hair was pulled back into a clip at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was minimal, and he hadn’t noticed any rocks on her fingers.
She’d looked like a woman who was deliberately playing down her attributes. He frowned, wondering why. She’d almost appeared to be grieving. That wasn’t possible, Brock thought, since her parents had died a few years ago. The sadness in her green eyes had tugged at him. It still did. The erotic sight of her parted lips inches away from him when she’d fallen stirred long-buried needs. Needs best denied, he thought, feeling too aware of how long he’d been without a woman.
Damn, he didn’t need this. He poured another bourbon. He shouldn’t have asked that last question. He’d seen the glint of pain in her gaze and her brave attempt to cover it, and in that one strange moment, he’d sensed a kindred spirit. That was impossible.
Felicity slept soundly until she heard heavy footsteps outside her door. Glancing at the clock, she winced at the afternoon hour and pulled her pillow over her head. Way too early. Not twenty-four hours. She willed herself to return to sleep.
“Sheep,” she muttered, counting fluffy white animals as they jumped over a fence. She heard more heavy footsteps and pictured Brock Logan’s boots. Following the image of his boots up his long legs and muscular thighs to the rest of his impressive physique, she moaned and kicked off the sheet. She tried to think of sheep, but they morphed into cows and reality began to sink in. She was not in Manhattan. She was on a cattle ranch.
“And why are you here?” she wryly asked herself. “Because you said you wanted to think about it when your financial advisor asked you to marry him.”
The knowledge rubbed over her like a wire brush. Unable to remain still one second longer, she tossed her pillow against the wall and rolled out of bed onto the floor. Her nightgown, hair and limbs in disarray, Felicity shook her head. She’d always had a little problem with her coordination.
“A robe,” she murmured. Shoving her hair from her face, she scrambled to her feet and opened one suitcase, then another. She rustled through the contents until her hand encountered something hard, a picture frame. Her heart caught. Her housekeeper Anna had packed the treasured last picture taken of her and her parents.
Felicity pulled out the picture and stared instead into the weasel face of her former financial advisor, who had almost been her fiancé Doug.
Standing in the upstairs hallway with his daughter Bree, Brock heard a scream followed by a thump and shattering glass. He narrowed his gaze at the guest-bedroom door. “Go on to your room, honey,” he said to Bree, nudging her down the hall.
“But something broke,” she said, wide-eyed and curious despite her low-grade fever.
“I’ll take care of it. You get to bed,” he told her.
Brock waited until Bree went into her room then slowly opened the guest-bedroom door. “Miss Chambeau?” he began, then stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted him.
Felicity stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, her hair tousled over her shoulders and her slim curves covered by a soft satin nightie that plunged low enough to hint at the shadow of her cleavage and was short enough to reveal most of her shapely legs.
All it would take to lose the nightie would be to push the tiny straps over her shoulders. He could see the outline of her nipples. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the garment. His mouth went dry.
Impatient with his response, he forced his gaze upward to her flushed face. Her green eyes sparked with temper, but her expression held a tinge of guilt that made him curious. He glanced at the busted picture frame.
“Miss Chambeau?” he repeated.
Felicity shrugged, drawing his gaze to her breasts. She was too feminine for his system at the moment, he thought, with resentment. Locking his gaze on her eyes, he stared at her expectantly.
“It’s a picture,” she said.
“Of my former financial advisor,” she continued when he remained silent. “I—uh dropped—” She broke off. “I didn’t expect to find him in my suitcase! The dirty sleazebag left the country with my money. And it’s not the money. I have enough money, but I trusted him. I trusted him. I almost—” She broke off. “I can only hope he’ll be eaten by a giant cockroach in the South American country where he’s hiding with Chi Chi the exotic dancer and die a horrible, painful death.” She finally took a breath and visibly composed herself. “But this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Brock blinked at the change. There was obviously more to this story. More than he wanted to know, he emphasized to himself. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet. I’ll get a broom and dustpan from the linen closet.” He stepped into the hallway and shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed. A kooky rich lady with a body designed to whip every male in west Texas into a state of frenzy.
Grabbing the broom and pan, he returned to find her gingerly putting shards of glass into the wastebasket. “I told you not to move.”
She briefly met his gaze, then returned to her task. “My tantrum. My mess. My clean-up.”
Irritation burned through him. “Listen, I’ve got a sick kid, and a cow ready to drop her first calf. I don’t have time to take you into town for stitches.”
She glanced at him with her head cocked to one side. “Oh. Who is sick?”
Brock knelt down beside her and quickly swept the glass into the dustpan. He tried not to inhale her subtle feminine scent. “My daughter Bree. I just picked her up from school. Do you want the picture?” he asked, looking at the photo of a smoothly handsome man with a weak chin.
