The Secret Daughter

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”

Adam kicked at the ladder again.

“Quit swearing at the roof and hold still.”

Adam wondered if he’d imagined the woman who appeared to be digging through the honeysuckle below and to the left of his swinging feet.

“Are you hurt?” a low melodic voice inquired.

“A few scrapes,” he muttered. “Probably a bruised rib or two. If you can lift that ladder, sweet thing, chances are I’ll live.”

“Chances go down if you call me sweet thing again.”

Adam couldn’t see much of his Good Samaritan. But he fell instantly in lust with her sweet-as-sugar voice. Despite a downpour few women of his acquaintance would’ve ventured out in, this one had come from nowhere, raised his ladder and then climbed a few rungs to guide his feet to safety.

“Are…are you Jackson Fontaine?” she asked, her voice suddenly hesitant.

“I’m Adam Ross. I restore historic homes. I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Noelani. Noelani Hana. I’m…Duke Fontaine is…”

So this lovely woman was the secret daughter. Duke’s little indiscretion. The illegitimate Fontaine heir.

Dear Reader,

One of the biggest challenges in writing linked books like the Raising Cane trilogy—especially a project involving three individual authors—is finding characters we love to love. Seeing the characters as people you’d want to know and live with for an extended period of time is essential to writing any book. When three writers carry over characters from each other’s stories, it’s like populating a small town.

Eve Gaddy, K.N. Casper and I met and brainstormed probably twenty scenarios and twice as many possible heroes and heroines before we decided to set our family in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the heart of sugarcane country. Casey and Jackson Fontaine have roots in their ancestral plantation, Bellefontaine, stretching back to the Civil War. They’ve grown up in the sugarcane business and are itching to prove their worth to a controlling father. When their parents go off on an around-the-world second honeymoon, it seems the perfect opportunity. Except the Fontaine family has enemies and family scandals. Love interests show up, which further complicate their lives. It takes three books to solve the family’s problems, bring in the crop of sugarcane and unite three sets of lovers. I hope you’ll enjoy Casey’s Gamble, The Secret Daughter and Jackson’s Girls.

Sincerely,

Roz Denny Fox

P.S. I love to hear from readers at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tuscon, AZ 85731, or e-mail me: rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

The Secret Daughter
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Duke & Angelique Fontaine: Owners of Bellefontaine, recently deceased

Cassandra (Casey) Fontaine: Bellefontaine plantation manager and daughter of Duke and Angelique

Nick Devlin: Riverboat casino owner and builder; married to Casey

Jackson Fontaine: Bellefontaine business manager and son of Duke and Angelique

Megan Fontaine: Jackson’s four-year-old daughter

Esme Fontaine: Duke’s opinionated sister

Noelani Hana: Illegitimate daughter of Duke Fontaine and Anela Hana

Adam Ross: Nick’s friend and historic home renovator

Roland Dewalt: Long-standing neighbor of the Fontaines

Murray Dewalt: Roland’s son and longtime friend of Casey and Jackson

Vivian (Viv) Pontier-Renault: Casey’s best friend

Luc Renault: Jazz musician and Viv’s husband

Tanya Carson: Megan’s nanny

Betty Rabaud: Fontaine family cook

Bruce Shiller: Owner of sugar plantation in Hawaii where Noelani grew up

Denise Rochelle: Current Fontaine employee, romantically interested in Adam Ross

Chuck Riley: Copilot who flew with Duke Fontaine

Remy Boucherand: Police detective investigating suspicious events at Bellefontaine

In researching the trilogy, we discovered that everything we’ve ever heard about Southern hospitality is completely true. Our heartfelt thanks go to Kenneth and Mary Jane Kahao, longtime sugar growers in the Baton Rouge area, for squiring us around. Because of them, we were able to tour cane fields during cutting season and get an in-depth look at a working sugar mill.

Nor would our books be so rich with the history of the sugar industry if not for the generosity of Caroline Kennedy, Director, and Jim Barnett, Curatorial Assistant, of the West Baton Rouge Museum. (Caroline was quick to inform us she wasn’t that Caroline Kennedy.)

Our apologies for any errors or bits of poetic license we may have taken in order to weave the fictional fabric of our linked stories.

I also want to thank my husband for driving us to and from Louisiana, and for the hours he and Mary Casper spent reading our stories for continuity. They’re the best.

And thanks to Paula, Laura and Beverley, our editors, for their coordination, support and the insight needed to move this project from start to finish.

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PROLOGUE

Baton Rouge, Louisiana

“BETTY! BETTY RABAUD. I thought it was you. Wait, let me catch my breath. I’ve been hoping I’d run into you one of these days. I declare, can anything else go wrong for Casey and Jackson Fontaine?” Ignoring a stiff October wind, Mary Louise Chastain ran up to her friend outside a local café. She used to be a cook at the Woodlands, owned by Roland Dewalt, the Fontaine family’s nearest neighbor. And Betty was her counterpart on the larger plantation.

Betty Rabaud loved few things in life as much as she loved gossip. Her role as housekeeper-cook at Bellefontaine certainly gave her access to lots of the good stuff. She couldn’t help it if her affluent employers had been involved in so many disasters—each one worthy of gossip—during the past few months.

Today it happened to be news that had somehow leaked into the community. The recently deceased Duke Fontaine had fathered an illegitimate child. Glancing both right and left before pulling the ever-present unlit cigarette from between her lips, Betty tucked it over one ear and said in hushed tones, “Ain’t it something, Mary Louise? But how did you hear?”

“Murray Dewalt dropped by to see how I was getting on. I’d already heard rumors about the arson at Bellefontaine, how they had an expensive harvester go missing, and about Casey Fontaine taking up with that riverboat casino owner. Murray’s not one to talk out of turn, mind you, but I squeezed some information out of him. ’Cause he feels so bad for the way his dad fired me in one of his fits of temper. Not that I’d ever go back to the Woodlands, and Murray knows it.”

“Humph,” Betty grumbled. “I figured maybe it was Roland spreading dirt about Duke’s family, seeing how Duke stole the woman Roland had his heart set on marrying.”

“Isn’t that water down the toilet? Oh, sure, Roland bellyached to his old cronies, although he’s a loner, that one. If you ask me—and no one does—Roland Dewalt’s becoming a hermit.”

“Let’s go inside where we can eat and chat some more, Mary Louise. Today’s my day off, so I’m not in any rush.”

“Mine, too. Having a day off is new for me. Roland Dewalt expected me to work seven days a week, and for a lot less than I’m making working a shorter week for Baumgartner’s.”

The friends went inside and sought an out-of-the-way back booth.

Mary Louise lowered her voice further, mostly to avoid being overheard by a chatty group seated at a nearby table. “Do you think Angelique knew her husband was playing around? Or would she ever tell you such a thing, since you’re only a shirttail cousin?”

“Angelique didn’t tell a soul. Truth is, I overheard Casey pitching a royal fit. I guess in some letter she and Jackson found, it more or less said their mother forgave Duke his little transgression. Know what else I heard, though? This tickles me pink.” Betty gave a smug smile. “Esme Fontaine had no earthly clue.”

“My, my. Considering how hard it was for her to swallow the idea of Jackson’s love child, that little girl, showing up to live at Bellefontaine, I’m surprised Esme didn’t have a stroke over learning her brother had one of his own hidden away.”

“Well, she won’t be hidden for long. She’s coming for the reading of Duke’s will tonight. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in that meeting. Which is why I’ll bet you Esme arranged for Shelburne Prescott to read it on my day off. Mademoiselle Froufrou would like nothing better than to keep this secret inside the family. Mark my words, Esme’ll have that girl in and gone again before she can do any more damage to Duke’s reputation.”

“Doesn’t matter whether you get along with Esme or not, Betty, you can’t fault her for feeling like that. She’s lived half her life with everyone in town snickering over the way Roland broke their engagement when he fell for Angelique.

“If this was just about Esme’s feelings, I’d say tough. But Casey doesn’t deserve to have this kind of shadow over her marriage. And poor Jackson. Now that Duke’s dead, that boy’s been left in charge of an operation his father barely let him touch.

“It’s the same with Murray Dewalt, God love him. Duke and Roland, for all their petty squabbles, seemed to think a son proved their virility. Yet both of ’em were too stubborn and arrogant to equip their boys to take over if anything ever happened to them.”

“Ain’t it the truth. But I’m sure Duke didn’t plan on going.”

“Yep. I imagine he’d have done a whole lot of things differently if he’d had any idea he and Angelique were going to get killed in that plane crash. To make matters worse, the poor kids had to learn their papa was flying the plane that day.” She shook her head. “Still, any way you cut it, Duke left Jackson and Casey in a thorny situation.”

The women’s friendly gossip session ceased abruptly as a waitress showed up to take their lunch orders.

CHAPTER ONE

Maui, Hawaii

“HI, MIDORI.” NOELANI HANA breezed full-tilt into the executive offices of Shiller Cane Company, the same way she’d moved through life for most of her twenty-seven years. Her long, straight hair settled like dark rain over her olive-toned shoulders as she skidded to a stop in front of Bruce Shiller’s secretary. “What’s so urgent to make the boss send a runner to the mill to get me? I’ll have our vat computers running fine before the first load of cane’s delivered, if that’s what he’s worried about.”

“He didn’t give a reason, just opened his door and told me to find you ASAP.”

Noelani peeled off her leather work gloves and tucked them into the back pocket of her khaki walking shorts. “Guess I’d better go see. Oh—has he met with those truck farmers again? You know, the ones who proposed turning the cane fields into a tomato patch or some ridiculous thing?”

“Bruce hasn’t mentioned them in weeks. He’s still muttering about selling, though. You know this is the fourth year in a row our profits have dropped.”

Noelani knocked on Shiller’s door. Pasting a smile on her face, she burst gaily into his office. “You rang, oh great master?”

Seated behind a huge mahogany desk, a gaunt, sixtyish man, with a weathered face and white hair, glanced up. Probably for the first time ever, he didn’t return Noelani’s smile. “Take a seat.” Rocking back in his chair, he idly twirled a pencil.

Unable to read his expression Noelani grew uneasy. “If this is going to be another lecture about flagging profits, Bruce—don’t worry. I’ll coax more from our worn-out equipment. We haven’t given the new computer program I wrote a chance to show what it can do.”

“Sit, Noelani. I didn’t call you here to talk about the mill.” Tossing the pencil aside, he peeled open a creamy envelope and removed an official-looking letter.

She did as he asked this time, throwing herself into a chair. Bruce’s office was like home. Until her mother died of lymphatic cancer, Anela Hana had kept Shiller’s books. Noelani had barely turned thirteen the day Bruce informed her Anela had died. It was the only other time she recalled seeing such deep sorrow in Bruce’s eyes, and her stomach reacted accordingly.

“Noelani, it grieves me greatly, but I have the task of telling you that Duke Fontaine and his wife, Angelique, died in a plane crash.” Bruce Shiller pushed the letter toward her. “This lawyer, Shelburne Prescott, says you’re named in your father’s will, along with Cassandra and Jackson Fontaine. They, of course, live at Bellefontaine. Duke’s plantation…on the mainland,” he clarified as Noelani stared at the letter without touching it.

“He had other kids? Well, if they’re named Fontaine, I guess they’re legitimate.”

“Noelani!”

She crumpled the page and threw it back across the desk. “What am I supposed to feel, Bruce? Sorrow…for someone who didn’t give a damn about me? I’ve never even met the man!”

“You should’ve gone there after your mother died.”

“I didn’t need him. I had Grandmother. And I had you.” She shook her head. “Did he come to her funeral or even send flowers? I know you notified him.” Furious now, as she always was when she thought about the man her mother had thrown away her life for, Noelani twisted a lock of hair. The auburn streaks and her five-foot-six-inch height were attributes she’d probably inherited from Duke Fontaine. If Noelani felt curious about anything, it was what traits, if any, she shared with half siblings she hadn’t known existed until this minute.

“Duke cared enough to name you in his will. His sugarcane operation makes mine look like small potatoes, kid. You think it’s not obvious that you’re practically killing yourself in my mill, trying to achieve what Duke’s children have by birthright?”

The initial shock of Bruce’s news had begun to fade. In purely mercenary terms, Noelani considered what she could do with a windfall of cash. Do here—at Shiller’s, she hastily corrected. Except…wasn’t there always a catch when it came to money? In this case, she’d have to admit she was Duke Fontaine’s bastard.

She eyed the balled-up letter belligerently. “I can’t imagine that Duke’s legitimate kids want me appearing on the scene to muck up their lives. How old are they?”

“Cassandra is thirty or thirty-one. Jackson’s a little younger. Nearer your age. Girl, you owe it to yourself to at least go see what this inheritance is all about. Who knows, you may like Louisiana and Duke’s family well enough to stay.”

“Never! If I have an inheritance coming, let them mail it. Depending on how much it is, maybe we can upgrade our equipment.”

“Noelani, you’re not sinking money into my operation.”

“Why not? You’ve been more of a father to me than Duke Fontaine ever was. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want to buy you out when you retire. Please, Bruce, would you phone Prescott and ask him to mail whatever I have coming from the estate?”

The man across the desk sighed. “All right. I’ll ask. But then we have to talk about what’s happening to the sugar industry in Hawaii, Noelani.”

Five minutes later, she’d heard enough of his one-sided conversation to know Prescott wasn’t going to merely cut her a check.

Bruce confirmed as much after signing off. “Duke’s will states you have to be present at the property distribution settlement to inherit. His firm’s wiring you a ticket out of Honolulu for tomorrow. So you’d better go pack. Your connecting flight leaves Kahului in five hours.”

“Forget it! Let them keep Duke Fontaine’s guilt money. I don’t need anything from him. I never have,” she blazed.

“Noelani, do this for your mother. Anela never stopped loving him. Anyway, aren’t you curious? Over the years you’ve asked questions about your biological dad. This is your chance to get answers.”

Vaulting from her chair, Noelani stalked to the door, angry tears glistening in her eyes. “That’s dirty pool,” she finally said in a hard-edged voice. “Okay, I’ll go. But the minute his affairs are settled, I’m on the next plane home to Maui. Have Midori’s son tend my computers while I’m gone, okay? If it was up to me, I wouldn’t touch a cent belonging to Duke Fontaine. I will, though, because I want to buy Shiller’s when you retire. Maybe this will allow us to be a contender in the world sugar market again.”

“Noelani…wait. I’m thinking seriously of sell—” Bruce heaved his arthritic bones from the chair and hobbled around the desk. She slammed the door, cutting off a statement she didn’t want to hear.

NOELANI OPENED ONE EYE and was relieved to discover that the 747 she’d boarded at Honolulu International was safely aloft. This was her first ride in a jumbo jet. Not that she’d care to broadcast her inexperience. Easing her death grip on the armrests, she tugged at the short black skirt of a linen suit she’d worn to meet the family in mourning.

An elderly woman seated next to Noelani smiled. “I’m always nervous during takeoff and landings, too. Are you continuing beyond Dallas?”

“Uh…yes, I’m going to Louisiana.”

“A vacation, how nice. I hear New Orleans is having a mild fall.”

“It’s not a vacation. I’m visiting family. Near Baton Rouge. They grow sugar.” Noelani shocked herself by referring to the Fontaines as family. Then, uncharacteristically, bared her soul to a stranger. “Actually, they’re my father’s family. I lived with my mother, who was Hawaiian.”

“So you’re hapa haoli. Your Caucasian half must account for the lovely auburn highlights in your hair. They’re quite striking, my dear. Is your father Scottish?”

“I don’t know. We never met, and now he’s gone.” Noelani shut her eyes. “I was ten before my hair turned this funny color. My tutu, that’s my mom’s mother, said I was born with jet-black hair like all the other Hawaiian kids in our village—on Maui. My mother kept the books for Shiller’s. The largest sugarcane plantation in the islands,” she added proudly.

The woman’s face fell. “Divorce affects so many families these days.”

Noelani didn’t bother to set her straight.

“It’s a shame, dear, especially as sugar must’ve been something your parents once had in common. But I’m sure your father’s relatives will appreciate that you’ve come so far to pay your respects.”

“Hmm.” Noelani mumbled something noncommittal as she recalled her first glimpse of Duke Fontaine’s photo. She’d often seen Anela crying as she gazed at a snapshot of a stranger. Noelani recalled stealing into her mom’s bedroom to get a better look at the picture one day, after kids at school had taunted her about her lack of a father. Instinctively, she’d known it was the man in the faded photograph.

Noelani’s seatmate moved on to another subject. “Hawaii is a wonderful vacation spot. I own a time-share on Kauai and fly over for two weeks every year. Is it boring, living full-time on an island?”

“Boring?” Noelani was never bored. But then, she had nothing else with which to compare her life. “Ours is a seaside town. Two out of three adults work in cane. Shiller’s office operates year-round, so my mother never really got time off, even though the mill shuts down for two months to overhaul equipment. Social life picks up considerably during that period. My tutu took me to all the luaus, hukilaus and huli hulis.”

“I’m familiar with luaus, where they pit-roast a pig. Locals net fish, I believe, at a hukilau. Huli huli is beyond my scope,” the woman said, and then laughed.

“Mainlanders would probably call it a chicken barbecue. But we use a sweet molasses-based sauce. And islanders grab every opportunity to sing, dance and eat.”

“I’ll bet you do the hula.”

“No way. I’m a good kick-boxer, though.”

“My, that sounds more like something men would do for sport.”

Because their lunch was served, Noelani let the subject drop. Her grandmother had believed it was a fitting outlet for a young woman’s pent-up hostilities. She’d signed her only granddaughter up for lessons at age thirteen, insisting it’d help Noelani work through her grief and anger. A wise woman, her tutu.

Following lunch, Noelani’s seatmate took a nap. The woman slept all the way to Dallas. Noelani barely had an opportunity to say goodbye, as she had to run to catch her connection to Baton Rouge.

Her arrival there was greeted by pouring rain. Thunder shook the baggage terminal. If this was mild weather, as her seatmate had intimated, Noelani hoped she didn’t encounter bad weather during her brief stay in Louisiana.

And her stay here would be brief.

Gazing out at the ominous skies, Noelani was engulfed by a wave of homesickness. She watched people chatting with those who’d come to pick them up and felt more alone than ever.

In Dallas, she’d seen greeters carrying signs with the names of various travelers. She peered around, hoping to see someone displaying her name—maybe even one of her half siblings. Until now, Noelani hadn’t realized how much she’d counted on being met by someone from Duke’s family.

What were they like, these relatives she hadn’t even known about?

As the carousel began to empty it became patently obvious that Duke’s kids weren’t imbued with the famous southern hospitality her mother had touted the one and only time Noelani succeeded in getting her to speak about the man she loved. She was always shuffled off to her tutu whenever she asked questions about her father, but on that one occasion Noelani refused to be ignored. In a rare unguarded moment, Anela described her absent lover as a dashingly handsome and charming southern gentleman. A hard man with a soft heart. Anela said then she’d love Duke Fontaine until the day she died. Noelani was sure she had.

It wasn’t until much later that Noelani inadvertently learned that Duke had neglected to mention his marriage at the outset of his relationship with Anela. According to Tutu, Duke had also wanted to divorce his wife and leave his Louisiana home, but Anela refused to hear of it. It wasn’t until after he’d left Maui that she discovered she was pregnant—a fact that never altered her decision to let him go.

Talk about decisions… After ten minutes of watching the baggage department clear out, Noelani collected her bags and went in search of a cab. If money to help shore up Shiller’s mill hadn’t been her prime objective in coming to this dreary place, she’d have asked the driver to take her straight to a hotel.

But according to a terse telegram from Jackson Fontaine that had accompanied her ticket, a room awaited her at Bellefontaine. It was that address Noelani reluctantly gave the cabbie.

Through a streaked window, she watched the skyline of Baton Rouge disappear in a mass of black clouds. Her cab crossed a wide, churning expanse of muddy water the driver said was the Mississippi River.

Never before had Noelani felt so out of her element.

Soon the city gave way to wet fields of tall cane. The knot in her stomach began to uncoil. As a child she’d played hide-and-seek in similar cane rows. Friends often broke off stalks and chewed them for the juice, but Tutu had warned it would ruin her teeth, so Noelani rarely sneaked a nibble. But, oh, how she loved the smell of burnt sugar that used to hang like mist in the air when they burned fields. More of life’s changes, she mused, watching field after field slide past. Agricultural developers had introduced new cane that was too tough to chew, followed by better fertilizers, which made it more advantageous to plow under old ratoons. As well, environmentalists had forced an end to burning.

The driver pointed. “Up ahead, through those magnolia trees, is Bellefontaine. In French, Bellefontaine means pretty fountain. There are fountains all over the grounds. I’m not sure how many.”

Noelani scooted forward as far as her seat belt allowed and craned her neck for her first look at Duke Fontaine’s home. A home he’d purportedly been willing to give up for her mother. Right! The gift of a lei promised that its recipient would return to the islands, but Duke had never made another trip to Maui. Plainly, by the look of this place, he’d gone on with his life in grand style while Anela pined hers away.

Noelani counted four fountains on a huge manicured lawn. Not even the downpour detracted from the effect of tall white pillars and wide balconies supporting a mansion larger than Queen Emma’s summer palace. As a special treat one time, Tutu took Noelani on a tour of their most beloved Hawaiian ruler’s part-time residence. This home was more ostentatious.

Unable to catch her breath, Noelani didn’t immediately realize the cab had pulled around to the back of the house. Awed by the home’s magnificence, and heedless of the falling rain, she stepped out for a better look. The fresh, rain-washed scent failed to cloak an acrid odor of charred wood.

Standing several yards away from a jutting porte cochere, Noelani saw that a section of the mansion had burned. Recently enough so that a workman was even now attempting to spread tarps over a gaping hole in the roof. He leaned far out from the top rung of an extension ladder. The man was bare-headed, and dark hair lay plastered to his skull. Faded blue jeans and a gray T-shirt were molded to his wet skin.

Suddenly the ladder slipped out from under the man’s sneakers and fell hard into a flower bed below. The man was left clawing at a sagging rain gutter. He managed to grab the tarp with one hand seconds before the gutter cracked and a large section canted crazily. If he continued to kick, the section would break and plummet him to the ground below. Granted, that section of the house was only one story tall, compared to three in the main structure. Nevertheless, the man could break his neck.

Heedless of her strappy leather heels and new linen suit, Noelani tore across the soft lawn, leaving her cabbie in the process of requesting her fare.

ADAM ROSS, WHO’D BEEN HIRED by Casey Fontaine to restore Bellefontaine to historical perfection, swore roundly at his ladder. He maintained a tenuous grip on the canvas tarp and had one elbow buried in a weak rain gutter that had sustained damage during a recent kitchen fire. It wasn’t bad enough that this storm had blown in from the gulf, calling a halt to the job of his dreams; now Adam feared he’d break a leg or worse and lose the contract altogether. “Dammit to hell!”

He kicked experimentally to see if maybe the ladder hadn’t fallen all the way to the ground. A warning crack and further sagging of the gutter forced him to freeze. Even at that, his hundred-and-ninety-pound weight was liable to rip the entire gutter from its shaky mooring.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!” He kicked again, only halfheartedly.

“Quit swearing at the roof and hold still.”

Adam wondered if he’d imagined the woman who appeared to be digging through the honeysuckle below and to the left of his swinging feet.

“Are you hurt?” a low melodic voice inquired.

“A few scrapes,” he muttered. “Probably bruised a rib or two. If you can lift that ladder, sweet thing, chances are I’ll live.”

“Chances go down if you call me sweet thing again.”

Adam couldn’t see much of his Good Samaritan. But he fell instantly in lust with her sweet-as-sugar voice. Lately, women hadn’t figured in Adam’s life. He’d been too busy building a business after working his butt off to graduate from LSU in restorative architecture. Certainly he’d never been smitten with a woman based solely on her voice. That was about to change, however, if this one got him out of his current mess.

Damn, any woman capable of standing his heavy ladder upright the way the Amazon below had managed with the ease of a seasoned construction worker definitely owned a big piece of Adam’s heart.

Despite a downpour few women of Adam’s acquaintance would’ve ventured out in, this one had come from nowhere, raised his ladder and then climbed a few rungs to guide his feet to safety.

“Thanks,” he panted. “You saved my—” he’d been about to say job, but that sounded too parsimonious “—my life.”

“Hardly anything so dramatic. But you’re welcome.”

Now that the dangling man was safe and her heart had stopped hammering wildly, Noelani retreated and squinted up for a clearer look at him. She judged the man to be in his early thirties. Even on this overcast day, she could tell that his eyes were very blue. The steaming T-shirt plastered to his broad chest sported the logo of a local university. “Are you…Jackson Fontaine?” Her throat went dry as it struck Noelani that she might have given aid to her half brother.

Adam stared down on a mass of black hair framing a face that seemed to be all eyes. He also noted a lot of leg below a short black skirt. A very nice package from his bird’s-eye view. “Stay put,” he ordered, having more pressing matters at the moment than cataloging his helper’s pleasing attributes. “Could you hold the ladder, please? I’ll secure these tarpaulins so they won’t blow away.”

Either he hadn’t heard or else he chose to ignore her question. The fool hoisted himself off his safe perch onto the roof and left the metal ladder vibrating under Noelani’s fingers. She barely caught his request—or more to the point—his edict.

He must be Jackson Fontaine. Who but the lord of the manor would deem it his right to keep a woman standing in the rain while he covered his castle? Oh, well. She couldn’t get much wetter. And it was a warm rain. Since she needed to speak to him, anyway, she might as well ensure he didn’t break his fool neck.

“Hey, lady. How about you pay your fare and let me be on my way?”