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TYCOON’S TEMPTATION
ALLISON LEIGH
KATHERINE GARBERA
JAN HUDSON
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE TYCOON
BY
ALLISON LEIGH
Allison Leigh started early by writing a Halloween play that her school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.
She has been a finalist in the RITA® Award and the Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that they laughed, cried or lost a night of sleep while reading one of her books.
Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several different cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church, and currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.
Dear Reader,
I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with Dane and Hadley, and then when Nikki Day briefly found her way to Hadley’s boarding house, Tiff’s, there was a wonderful sense of connection for me. The Rutherford clan was now connected to some of my favourite people from Weaver, Wyoming, and the entire Double-C Ranch family. I felt like my old friends had come to have a party together!
Thank you for sharing some time with Dane and Hadley.
I hope you enjoy the party as much as I did.
My very best wishes,
Allison
For my friends, old and new
Chapter One
The pickup truck pulled out right in front of him.
Dane Rutherford swore a blue streak, wrenching his steering wheel. He missed clipping the hind end of the pickup by the breadth of a fat snowflake and shot past, close enough to see the panic widening a pair of already wide female eyes as the driver of the pickup turned to see his car.
He was still swearing as he fishtailed on the slick road, turning into the skid, trying to regain control. And though he’d missed the pickup at first, the skid caused metal to meet metal in a long, eerie scrape. They still would have been okay if she hadn’t panicked at the contact. But she did. And she careened one way, then the other.
Dane cursed anew, trying to avoid hitting her again.
The road was winding, as damnably narrow as any back road he’d ever raced, and he felt his stomach drop out as his car went airborne off the shoulder, over the ditch.
Then he forgot about whether the woman was okay, about what Wood would say when he learned Dane had smashed his precious car, about everything except bracing himself for the impact.
The car was old. The tree it hit was older. Solid as hell, and there was no way Dane could hope to avoid it.
Crashing into it should at least stop the car’s flight.
It did. Effectively.
Hadley stared in disbelief at the way the front end of the cherry-red car accordioned against the massive poplar tree trunk. She was so focused on the other vehicle, in fact, that she very nearly forgot her own problems. Gasping, she jerked the steering wheel again to keep from going down the opposite ditch and then cringed when she plowed right into the mileage marker on the side of the road, hard enough to bend the thing clean over.
She sat there for a moment. Stunned.
The engine gasped. Groaned. The sad sounds were enough to break her momentary shock, and she quickly turned off the engine before it surely died.
More work for Stu to do on her vehicle.
Shaking her head to clear it, she looked back for the other car. The roadside ditch it had plunged down was deep and she couldn’t even see the car.
“Please be okay,” she muttered under her breath as she pushed out into the snowy afternoon, racing across the road. Her boots skidded as she dashed down the opposite shoulder, and her feet flew out from beneath her. Her hands flailed, her rear hitting the unrelentingly frozen earth of the steep incline. She barely felt the jarring impact shoot up her body to her teeth, which slammed together, before she was pushing to her feet again, slipping and sliding her way to the crumpled car. She couldn’t get to the driver’s side.
“Please be okay.” Her voice was a prayer this time as she rounded the hiked-up rear of the vehicle. One of the back wheels was still slowly spinning. She leaned down, peering through the spidery web of the cracked side window.
The man’s head was thrown back against the headrest. Blood splattered the inside of the windshield where he’d obviously hit his head, and it freely flowed from his forehead. The car hadn’t possessed an air bag, either.
The sight of all that blood sent alarm careening through her. “Hey.” She frantically tried to open the wrinkled door but it wouldn’t budge. Knocking on the cracked window was out of the question. And the engine was still running. She reached out and thumped her hand on the crumpled hood of the car, since pounding on the white convertible top wasn’t going to do any good in gaining his attention, but his eyes remained closed, unmoving. “Lord,” she whispered fearfully, “please let him be okay.” She banged on the car again. Hard enough to make her hand ache. Peered through the window. “Yessss.” His chest had moved. Was moving.
Thank you, God.
He was alive.
She scrambled out of the ditch and ran across the road, nearly tripping over her feet. Her fingers were so cold she could barely open her truck door. But she managed, and she leaned across the bench seat, grabbing her purse that had fallen on the floor. She dumped it out on the seat and snatched up her cell phone. It took two tries to punch the number. She clutched it to her ear as she dashed back across the road. Slid down on her rear again to get to the car. A thin dusting of snow now covered the crumpled hood.
“Shane, answer your darned phone.” She ran around to the side of the car again, banging her numb palm against the door. “Hey. Come on, mister, wake up. Oh, Shane.” She hunched over, holding the phone tightly when she heard her brother’s voice. “Thank heavens. There’s an accident—no, I’m fine.”
The man inside the car stirred. “Oh. Hey.” She waved her arms. As if he’d notice through his eyelids. “Unlock the car door.” She banged again on the hood. Even kicked at the side a little.
His head raised up. Impossibly thick lashes lifted to reveal a slit of dark eyes.
“That’s it, that’s it.” She patted the car as if she were patting a good dog. “Come on. Wake up.”
She realized her brother was yelling her name through the cell phone. “Sorry, Shane. We’re about a quarter mile past Stu’s turnoff. Better send the ambulance.” She pressed the off button on her brother’s tight voice and stuffed the phone into her pocket, where it immediately began vibrating again. She ignored it in favor of the man inside the vehicle. He’d touched his forehead. Was staring at the blood his fingers came away with.
“Unlock the door,” she said loudly again.
He eyed her. Sat forward a little, only to grimace. She read his lips easily enough. Swearing. She chose to take that as a good sign. His arm slowly moved and she heard a soft snick. He’d unlocked the door. She yanked hard on it to get it to budge and wedged her leg inside when it did. The stressed window crumbled into fine dust and a rush of warm air came out at her as she worked herself in, reaching straight across for the ignition.
She turned the key.
The laboring engine fell silent.
Her heart was pounding so hard she thought for certain he could hear it. She looked at him and realized that she was practically in his face. His… very attractive face, what there was she could see beneath the bloody smears. She hurriedly shifted, putting space between them, kneeling awkwardly on the seat beside him. The stubborn door was practically crushing her leg and she shoved hard on it with her snow boot to keep it open.
“Who the hell taught you how to drive?” His voice was deep, even if it was little more than a murmur.
She tried not to cringe. “My father, Beau Golightly.”
The man shifted, groaned a little, and she gently pressed her hands against his shoulder. “You shouldn’t move. There’s an ambulance on the way.” She dragged her sweater sleeve down over her hand from beneath the edge of her coat and gingerly pressed it against his temple, blotting some of the blood.
He closed a surprisingly strong hand over hers, staying the movements. “I don’t need a bloody ambulance.”
“Well, you are bloody,” she returned, carefully sliding her hand from beneath his. “Literally.” Even as she voiced the observation, she heard a siren whine. “My brother Shane is probably burning rubber to get here, too. He’s the sheriff.”
For a moment the driver looked irritated. But he said nothing. Merely unclipped his seat belt and peered out the windshield at the mangled hood of his car. “You’re joking about the Golightly thing, aren’t you?” he finally asked.
She frowned a little. “No. And I know how to drive just fine.” Defense came belatedly, but at least it came. “You were the one playing Speed Racer.”
His lips twisted a little. “Not anymore,” she thought she heard him mutter. But it was hard to tell since the ambulance’s siren was earsplitting in the moments before it wheezed to a halt. She finished backing out of the car and looked over to see Palmer Frame, and his latest sidekick, Noah Hanlan, slip-sliding down into the ditch. The ambulance waited on the shoulder up above them.
Palmer’s gaze traveled over her. “You hurt, Hadley?”
She shook her head and waved her hand toward the driver where Noah was making his way. “He is. He’s—”
“Fine.”
“—bleeding. A lot.” She ignored the clipped comment from inside the wreck and moved out of Palmer’s way. The tan SUV her brother drove screamed up the highway, and she sighed a little as she climbed up the embankment once more. It took some doing, since she kept looking back over her shoulder to see how Palmer and Noah were progressing with the injured man.
The EMTs had produced a crowbar and had worked the door open wide enough for the driver to get out. Standing, he was just as tall or taller than Palmer, and that was saying something. But he was standing, which meant he couldn’t be too bad off, right?
She hoped.
A part of her heard the crunch of tires, a fast stop. Shane’s tight voice muttering her name more like a curse than a prayer.
The driver had shaken off Palmer’s assistance, she noted. He’d planted his feet in the snow, hands on hips as he surveyed his car.
Very fine hips. Verrry fine rear—
“Hadley!”
She closed her eyes, whispered another quick prayer for patience—her tenth that day, at least—and stuck out her hand toward her brother. The ditch was getting more slippery by the minute and the late-afternoon temperature seemed to be dropping by chunks. “Help me up.”
Shane’s voice might have been annoyed, but his eyes were sharp with concern as he pulled her up the rest of the way to the road. His hands clamped on her shoulders as he examined her face.
Relief filled his eyes though his stern expression didn’t relax much. Evidently satisfied that Hadley was unharmed, he let go of her and headed into the ditch, pulling out the small notepad he carried in one of the pockets of his shearling coat. The sheriff, back at work.
Hadley shivered, wishing her own wool jacket were as warm as her brother’s. But she’d bought her jacket because of its pretty pink color, not because of its ability to keep the cold at bay. It was one of her ridiculously few frivolous purchases.
The three men were now staring at the car, looking as if they were in mourning or something. Well, the car did look pretty sad. It was old to start with, though the paint job—on the rear of the car at least—looked in perfect shape. She, however, was more concerned about the driver and his injuries than the front bumper that was now kissing cousins to the windshield wipers. For heaven’s sake, it was just a car. And the man was still bleeding. She could tell, because he’d swiped a hand over his forehead, and more blood oozed out to replace what he wiped away.
She stomped her way back into the ditch, tugging at Palmer and Noah. The men were EMTs, not car mechanics. “Don’t you think you ought to be seeing to him?” She looked up at the injured driver.
Snowflakes were catching in his thick hair. And he had ridiculously long black lashes, she noticed again, when he turned his gaze toward her. Steely blue. Until then, she’d never really known what that term defined, even though she’d used it herself when she was writing.
Now she knew firsthand. And… well. Hello.
She swallowed and took a step back, only to have her boot sink about a foot into the snow. Off balance, she felt herself falling, but the man shot out a hand and grabbed her upper arm to catch her. “You don’t know much about being careful, do you?” he observed.
Instead of falling ignominiously back on her tush, she’d ended up leaning against him. And what a him he was. Her vivid imagination immediately tripped along the path of whether or not his body was as solid as it seemed beneath the leather bomber jacket he wore.
She planted her feet more securely, pushing herself upright. Men like him did not look at women like her, particularly when said woman had helped send his car crashing into a tree.
“I wasn’t speeding,” she pointed out, yet again. But her conscience bit at that. She didn’t know if the man had been speeding or not. She’d been too preoccupied with her darned fool brothers and their unwelcome interest in her nonexistent love life.
Shane, Palmer and Noah were still dolefully shaking their heads over the crumpled car. “Um… maybe it’s escaped everyone’s notice, but you are still bleeding there.” She waved her hand generally in his direction. Then happened to notice the fingerprints he’d left on her coat. Bloody fingerprints.
He noticed, as well, and grimaced a little. “Sorry about that.”
She exhaled, impatient with the lot of them, and turned away. Climbed up the side of the ditch again and strode to the back of the ambulance where she yanked open the rear door. She grabbed a container of wipes and cleaned the blood from her hands, then grabbed a handful of gauze pads and headed back down the ditch.
Lordy, but her legs were starting to ache with all this up and downing. She tore open the paper wrapping on one of the pads and reached up, gingerly dabbing the injured man’s forehead.
He jerked a little, grabbed her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to help you,” she reminded. But if the man didn’t want assistance, fine. She didn’t stick her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Unlike some specific siblings she could name. She pushed the pads into his hands and gave Palmer a stern poke in the ribs. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Hold on there.” Shane closed his hand over her collar, stopping her cold. “There’s a small matter of the accident report.”
Of course. Stupid of her. She could feel her face flushing and hoped that the man hadn’t noticed. A lightning-quick glance his way quickly killed that little hope. “Fine. Could we do it out of the snow, though? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it is a little cold out here.” Her words were visible puffs, ringing around her head. Since New Year’s the week before, the weather had plummeted, bringing with it an uncommon amount of snow.
She was relieved when Shane looked again at the wreckage, then nodded. The driver apparently didn’t find the EMTs’ assistance objectionable the way he had hers. But then, they hadn’t helped his car fly into a ditch, either.
Shane told her to go wait in his SUV, and she was shaken enough that she obediently turned away and started up the incline again. She heard her brother ask the driver if the registration for the vehicle was in the car as she went. Shane’s SUV was idling, and she climbed up into the passenger seat where it was toasty warm. She flexed her numb fingers in front of the air vents and watched the men.
Of course there would have to be an accident report. No need to worry over it. The worst that would happen is that her insurance rates would go up.
Again.
She rubbed her hands together. Cupped her fingers over her mouth and nose and blew on them. She loved living in Lucius, Montana, but honestly, there were times she’d be happy to spend the winter lolling on a warm, sandy beach somewhere. If she closed her eyes, she could practically feel the heated kiss of sunlight on her face.
“Hand me that clipboard.”
The only warmth came from Shane’s heater vents. She opened her eyes to see her brother standing inside the opened door, his gloved finger pointing at the items on his console.
She handed the clipboard to him. Looked around his broad shoulder to see that the driver was now sitting on the back of the ambulance, submitting to Palmer’s belated but thorough examination. She could see Noah behind the wheel talking on the mic. “Hate that paperwork,” she murmured lightly, eyeing her brother.
He grunted. “Be glad neither one of you was hurt. Otherwise there’d be a helluva lot more.”
“I am.” She couldn’t have lived with herself if she’d harmed someone else. Still, she’d never been fond of putting her name on a bunch of legal documents. A trait passed down from her mother.
“Shane—”
“Don’t sweat it, turnip,” he advised after a moment.
She rolled her eyes at the old nickname, but subsided against the seat. The interior was getting cold. She had on a wool jacket and Shane’s heater was blasting. The driver wore only a leather bomber jacket. He’d surely be freezing by now. “Couldn’t Palmer give him a blanket or something?”
Shane glanced over his shoulder. “S’pose so,” he agreed, then turned his attention back to the report he was writing, his gaze sliding over her. “Stu was yakking my ear off on the phone about the way you ran out on him and Wendell when you called.”
“What’d he think you were going to do? Arrest me because I didn’t stick around until he could force me into having dinner with Wendell Pierce as well as lunch? Give me a break.” Stu had manipulated her into going out to his ranch, playing on her sympathies to cook a meal for him since his left hand was currently in a cast, knowing full well that she’d be too polite to walk back out again when she found Wendell there, too.
She peered around Shane again. The driver was watching her and she felt the impact of his striking gaze across the yards. Her skin prickled.
It was a decidedly unusual sensation.
“Stu wants you to be happy and settled.”
“Like the two of you are?” She forced herself to look back at her brother, raising her eyebrows pointedly. “Like Evie is?” She shook her head. Neither of her brothers were married, or currently involved with anyone for that matter. And their sister, Evie, was… well, Evie was another story entirely. “It’s pretty humiliating that my own brothers think I can’t find a man for myself,” she said half under her breath.
Even if it were true.
Not that she intended to admit it. She was already a pathetic marshmallow where her family was concerned. No need to provide them with her more ammunition.
“You’re twenty-seven,” Shane said. “When’s the last time you went on a date?” His pen scratched across the paper. “With someone other than Wendell Pierce.”
One lunch inadvertently shared at the counter of the Luscious Lucius did not really qualify as a date in her opinion, and she hadn’t ever intended to repeat it, not even in the sunny kitchen of Stu’s ranch house. But if she didn’t count that… well then, she really was pathetic.
There was nothing wrong with Wendell, except that she had little in common with the brown-haired, tall, gangly forty-year-old rancher and even less of an attraction for him.
“Maybe I’ve been busy. Watching Evie’s kids. Helping Stu out at the garage whenever Riva’s gone. Doing your filing down at the station.” All when she wasn’t busy with her own responsibilities at Tiff’s, the family’s boardinghouse, and trying to carve out enough time on her own to do what she loved best—writing.
Shane barely gave her a second glance. He finished scratching on his clipboard, and strode across the highway toward her pickup truck, studying the snowy blacktop as he went. A wrecker had pulled up on the shoulder, and Hadley saw Gordon and Freddie Finn get out and slide their way down the embankment.
She closed the door again to preserve the heat and nibbled the inside of her lip as she watched Gordon hook up the wreckage to chains and slowly maneuver it back up the incline. It didn’t seem possible, but the car looked even worse as it peeled away from the tree trunk.
She looked over at the driver again. His expression was unreadable, but a muscle flexed rhythmically in his jaw. She recognized that type of movement, having seen it often enough over the years on Shane’s face.
She sighed a little, hauled in a deep breath and pushed open the truck door. She walked over to him and was grateful when he didn’t just sort of duck and run for cover. He undoubtedly considered her a menace. “I’m sorry about your car,” she offered. It came out more tentative than she’d have liked, but then, so much about her did. What was one more instance to add to a lifetime of them? “Have you had it a long time?”
“Long enough.” His voice was surprisingly neutral, given the circumstances.
“Indiana,” she murmured, spying the license plate on his car. “Where were you heading?”
“Why?” His gaze sliced her way.
She lifted her shoulders, hugging her arms to herself. “Most people come through Lucius on their way to somewhere else. We’re barely a bump in the road.” Maybe that was a slight understatement. Lucius had its own hospital, its own schools and three different churches. There was also a fairly decent crop of restaurants and even a movie theater, complete with four screens. “I, um, have a cell phone if you need to call anyone.” He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t have to mean anything.
And why she was noticing his ring finger she had no idea. Hadn’t she spent ten minutes that day already railing at Stu that she was not looking for a husband?
His lips twisted a little. She thought he almost looked amused. Almost. “No, thanks.”
Which didn’t exactly say that he’d had no one to call.
She shifted. Pushed her fingers into the pockets of her jacket. Freddie had climbed up on the back of the tow truck and was guiding the chains in some complicated fashion as her brother controlled a lever. The car creaked and moaned as it was pulled upward onto the slanted ramp. She winced a little and looked up at the man again. “Does your head hurt very badly?”
“Not as much as the car hurts.” As if he couldn’t stand to look at it any longer, he turned his attention to her pickup, where a good portion of candy-apple red from his car was decorating the side of her truck. It was the brightest color on what was otherwise pretty indeterminate.
“Is Palmer going to take you in to the hospital?”
“No.”
She was surprised. “Palmer’s a great EMT. The best. So’s Noah. But you should probably still see a doctor about your head.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Are you sure? I thought head injuries were tricky. What if you have a concussion or something?”
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
He didn’t sound as if he were used to being questioned, and she bit back more comments.
Shane had clearly finished looking at whatever he’d figured needing looking at and was heading toward them again. He held out his clipboard to the driver. “Fill that out. I’ll need to see your license, too.”
The man didn’t take the clipboard. “We can settle this matter without all that.” His voice brooked no disagreement, and Hadley mentally sat back a little, curious to see how her brother, I-am-sheriff-hear-meroar, reacted.
“Some reason you don’t want to file an accident report?” Shane’s voice had turned that silky way it did whenever he was really displeased. He knew where Hadley’s distaste for accident reports came from, she knew. But a stranger wouldn’t be accorded a similar understanding.
Nevertheless, the driver looked unfazed, despite the gauze and tape covering half of his forehead. “Just the time it all takes,” he said. “Neither one of us is hurt and we both agree to pay for our own damages.”
Hadley made an involuntary sound, looking pointedly at his forehead. The truth was, they hadn’t agreed to anything.
“My sister pulls out in front of you, and you’re willing to cover the damages on your own car.” Shane’s gaze shifted to the vehicle in question that was now secured atop the flatbed of the tow truck.
“That’s a ’68 Shelby.”
The driver’s expression didn’t change. “I was going too fast. We’re both culpable.”
Shane sighed a little. Settled his snow-dusted cowboy hat on his head a little more squarely. “I can measure the skid marks,” he said, all conversational-like. “To prove the point. But we both know what I’m gonna find.” His smile was cool. “You weren’t speeding. So that just leaves me a mite curious as to why you’re in a such a hurry to go no place.”
“I have business to attend to.” The driver still seemed unfazed, and Hadley had to admire him for it. Not many people could stand their ground against that particular smile of Shane Golightly’s. Even Stu, Shane’s twin, had been known to back down in the face of it.
If the man wanted to claim a share of responsibility in the accident, who was she to argue? After all, she didn’t particularly want that report filed, either.
Shane appeared to be considering the driver’s smooth explanation. “Well. The registration is in order.” He tapped a folded piece of paper that was still in his possession. “Let’s just look at your license for now. Then we’ll see.”
The driver’s expression didn’t change one whit. “I don’t have it on me.”
Oh, dear. Hadley looked down at her boots, scuffling them a little in the skiff of snow.
“Well, that’s kind of a problem now, isn’t it?” Shane’s voice was pleasant.
She closed her eyes. Shane never sounded that pleasant unless he was completely and totally peeved.
The driver didn’t look like a car thief. Not that she necessarily knew what car thieves looked like. But if she were going to write one into one of her stories, she wouldn’t have given him thick, chestnut-colored hair and vivid blue eyes with a rear end that was world class. She’d have given him piercings and tattoos and slick grease in his hair, and he definitely wouldn’t be the hero—
She jerked her thoughts back to front and center. “Shane,” she said in that dreaded, tentative voice of hers. “You don’t have to give him the third-degree, surely. Mister, um—” she glanced up at the driver and simply lost her train of thought when his gaze found hers and held.
“Wood,” he said.
Dear Lord, please don’t let him be a car thief. He’s just too pretty for that. “Pardon me?”
“Wood,” he said again. “Tolliver. Atwood, actually, but nobody calls me that.” The corner of his lips twisted. “Not if they want me to answer.”
There was a molasses quality in his deep voice, she realized. Faint, but definitely Southern. And it was about as fine to listen to as her dad’s singing every Sunday morning. When she was alive, her mother’s voice had possessed a similar drawl.
With a start she realized she was staring at him.
Again. It was even more of a start to find that he was staring at her right back. Her skin prickled again, and it was not at all unpleasant.
“Well, Atwood Tolliver,” Shane said, still in that dangerously pleasant way. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring you in. Just till we verify that you really are who you say you are.”
The driver’s eyes froze over a little, and the hot little prickles underneath the surface of her skin turned as cold as the air seeping through her too-thin jacket.
Of course the man was staring at her. Undoubtedly wishing he’d never had the misfortune to drive anywhere near Lucius, Montana, or her.
The best-looking guy she’d ever seen in her entire life—on television, the movies or in her imagination—and her brother was gearing up to arrest him.
