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A Very Special Delivery

A Very Special Delivery
by Myrna Mackenzie

Silhouette Romance #1540 September 2001

"I'M GOING TO HAVE MY BABY. RIGHT NOW!"

Rushing to the rescue, Mick Hannon swept the vulnerable, delicate woman into his arms—and straight to the Maitland Maternity clinic door. But before he could leave, he suddenly found himself coaxing—and coaching—her through the birth!

Mick was secretly investigating some odd incidents at the clinic. Yet protecting penniless but proud Laura Maitland and her beautiful, newborn baby girl quickly grew more important. Although Laura's past had opened her to suspicion, Mick couldn't believe she was anything but good and honest.

But how to tell her his own secrets...?

 NOTE FROM AUTHOR

Dear Reader,
When I was given the opportunity to be a part of the Maitland Maternity series, I jumped at the chance. And when Mick Hannon, the hero, walked into my imagination, I knew I had made the right choice. What could be more sexy and exciting and romantic than a mysterious man on an undercover mission who stops everything to help a pregnant woman he doesn't even know? He's one tough hero, and Laura Maitland is just the type of strong woman a man like him should have. Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple (love never is, is it)? These two belonged together in my mind, but they just didn't see things my way. In the end, it was a bumpy, challenging, and very romantic journey, one I hope you'll enjoy.

 REVIEWS
 Amazon Books:

A very good book. The thing that amazes me is that the continuity is maintained well despite different authors writing for the series.

Reviewed By: M. A. Doyen

RT Book Reviews:

Some interesting surprises top off this touching read.

Reviewed By: Karen Matheny

EXCERPT

"I—I'm sorry, but I think I've waited too long. Please help me. I'm going to have my baby. Right now."

The soft, shaky words caught Mick Hannon's attention and he spun from where he'd been reviewing a set of blueprints outside Austin's Maitland Maternity Clinic to see a pale delicate woman with long brown hair swaying on her feet. Her eyes were wide with distress, her arms cradled her abdomen where her child lay. She was staring beseechingly at one of the gardeners who'd been trimming the bushes at this end of the long drive.

Just at that moment, the woman sucked in a deep breath and a low moan spilled from her pale lips. Her knees began to buckle. The unfortunate gardener's eyes went round and scared. He didn't move.

"Hell," Mick said, and he threw off his hard hat and rushed forward, slipping his hand behind the woman's back to support her as she began to slide downward.

"Easy, darlin'" he crooned. "Easy now. We'll get you inside where the doctors will take care of you." Automatically, he shifted one arm beneath her knees and lifted her high into his arms. The silk of her hair drifted against his neck, soft and smelling of flowers. In spite of her condition, she felt as light as froth. But as she lay in his grasp, she stiffened and nearly bucked out of his arms. The contraction rippled through her, tightening her slender arms and legs. He looked straight into huge green eyes glazed with pain. A light sheen of perspiration had dampened a few strands of her hair, making them catch against her lips.

A sense of panic and urgency filled him. This might be a maternity clinic, but he was only here to add a wing to the building. Pregnant women and babies were outside the realm of what he knew or wanted to know. Still, right now it appeared he was responsible for one very pregnant woman. A woman in agony. Mick clutched her more tightly as he turned toward the building.

"I'm—all right," she said as if she'd read his very thoughts, and he wondered if he'd spoken without realizing it. "Don't worry. This is—the way all women do it, I think. It's supposed to hurt." But her teeth sank into her lip and all he could think was that it wasn't fair that a woman this tiny should have to bear a pain this big for a baby that would come back in sixteen years and break her heart fifty thousand times. Gathering her closer, he moved forward.

She tried to sit up straighter. "I think—I think maybe I should be walking. All the books tell you to walk," she said in a strained voice the size of a field mouse.

Mick duly noted her need to be in control of her situation. He also noted how pale her skin was against her dark lashes. Gently, he adjusted his grip on her, trying to make her more comfortable, as she struggled to sit up once more.

"Shh. Be still. You can walk later," he suggested. "After the doctors say it's all right."

And right then, her body quivered and tightened and he could tell the roll of pain was gathering speed and depth. Her teeth clicked together as she held onto the scream he was sure she needed to give vent to.

"Hold on," he said gruffly, trying not to jostle her and hurt her any more than she already was. "Help's on the way." He approached the automatic doors of the clinic just as the woman in his arms went limp.

The doors slid back with an electric swish, and Mick strode into the waiting room, taking in his surroundings. There was a young receptionist in serious conversation with Megan Maitland, CEO of Maitland Maternity and matriarch of the Maitland clan, one of the first people he'd learned to recognize when he arrived in Austin a week ago. The tension in his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Megan probably knew a lot about women on the verge of giving birth. He started to turn her way, but a jerky movement from the lady in his arms stopped him mid-turn.

He glanced down at her. "You all right?"

She nodded tightly, then took a gasping breath of air as she looked toward Megan.

"Now blow it out," he directed, when it seemed as if the air had gotten trapped in her lungs.

She did, then took another breath and let it out, then another. She stole another quick glance toward the women who had turned their way.

"Okay. I'm—I'm…better now," the soft bundle of woman he was holding managed to say, and his attention was drawn to those green eyes that were now gazing straight into his own. "I--thank you for being here, and for helping me, but—I think I've pulled myself together now. I'm sorry that I acted so—so—"

"Pregnant?" he guessed with a hint of a smile.

She tried to smile back, but it was obvious that she was very weak. How in the world had she even managed to get here? "Pregnant," she agreed. "And stupid in not realizing I was so close to term. But—I'm sure I'm fine now. You can put me down. Now that I've caught my breath I can walk up to the desk." She pushed against his chest with those delicate fluttery hands of hers. A fruit fly would have made more of an impact. Her breath still sounded a bit labored and he made no move to follow her instructions.

He also noticed that she wasn't wearing a ring. So? Maybe she didn't have a husband…or maybe, well, there were plenty of pitiful excuses for husbands around. His father and stepfather had been cut from that very cloth, but with that thought, his beauty's baby chose that moment to move into action again. Mick felt the quick catch in her breath. Tension climbed his body as he clutched the woman close.

He veered toward Megan Maitland who was already crossing to meet him. "Ms. Maitland, she's having her baby right now. We need to do something here." His voice felt strained. A chill trickle of fear ran sprints up and down his spine.

"Don't worry. We will," she said, her voice soft and concerned. "Just bring her over here and we'll get her into a wheelchair and into the delivery room."

But the lady in his arms clutched tighter as the pain climbed and Megan shook her head.

"All right, never mind the wheelchair—or protocol. Come with me. I've had three babies of my own and I'm definitely of the opinion that when a woman is in labor, she deserves to be given whatever she needs. Right now, Mr. Hannon, this woman appears to need you."

For half a second, Mick wondered how the woman knew his name. But then, he'd heard she made a point of learning the names of those who worked for her. With the recent acts of vandalism at the clinic, she'd want to be able to identify the temporary employees. That wasn't good. The less the Maitlands knew of him the better. He should really leave the room now that he'd gotten his silken-haired beauty some help.

He opened his mouth to suggest that he needed to get back to work, but then the woman in his arms closed her eyes. Her delicate jaw tensed. He could almost taste the fear she was bravely struggling to control. And the gates of reason swung shut with a muffled click. He reluctantly nodded his agreement to Megan. He would stay here a few minutes longer.

Briskly Megan led the way out of the cool pastel reception area and down a corridor into a birthing room decorated in pale blue and white with honey-toned wood accents. It looked more homey than the hotel Mick was staying in right now.

Gently, he deposited the lady in his arms in a cushioned rocker, but she was apparently beyond noticing her surroundings. Indeed, she had curved those slender hands around his fingers and was holding on for dear life as if only he could save her. She looked up at him with deep distress in her eyes, and, automatically, he dropped to his knees, his jeans sinking into the plush carpet. He kept his eyes on hers and let her try to crush his big hands with her small ones.

"It's all right," he said. "Hold onto me."

"You're going to do just fine," Megan said. "Mick and I are going to make sure of that."

For half a second Mick's concentration broke. Belatedly, he remembered what he'd known for years. He was no woman's champion, and he had excellent reasons to steer clear of tempting women who were nesting.

A short time later, Megan asked the beauty her name.

Those pretty eyes fluttered closed, then she stared into Megan's eyes. "I'm Laura Maitland. From Las Vegas."

Megan looked startled, but she quickly caught herself. Mick, however, could only think one thing. I really shouldn't be here.

But he was here, and he was staying. For now.

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Cry Uncle by Judith Arnold

Cry Uncle
by Judith Arnold

Original Publication – Harlequin Superromance #634 March 1995

After witnessing a professional hit, Seattle architect Pamela Hayes has testified in court against the hit man. Unfortunately, a mistrial is declared and the hit man is released on bail while awaiting a new trial. He intends to silence the sole witness to murder—Pam—before that new trial begins. She needs to hide, and she runs as far as she can: to steamy Key West, Florida.

Jonas Brenner, a Key West bar owner and easy-going slacker, is about to lose custody of his orphaned five-year-old niece—unless he can convince the courts that he’s a responsible father. What he needs is a prim and proper wife who will create the illusion that Lizard, as his niece likes to be called, is being raised in a stable environment.

What Pam needs is a new identity. Joe offers her a deal: if she marries him and takes his name, no Pacific Northwest hit man is going to find her. In return, she can pose as Joe’s respectable wife, dutifully caring for the rambunctious, feather-wearing Lizard.

Of course, this will be a marriage in name only. No sex. No emotions. No love. Which, once Pam and Joe move in together and the sparks begin to fly, is easier said than done.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR

Cry Uncle was a bestseller when it was originally published by Harlequin in 1995. After being out of print for more than a decade, it’s now available as a Kindle or Nook download. An marriage-of-convenience caper-comedy, it’s long been a reader favorite. I’m delighted to make it available to a new generation of readers.


REVIEWS
  RT Book Review:

When a classy architect joins in a marriage of convenience with a slightly scruffy bartender to hide from a hit man out to kill her, frustration runs high, making both want to CRY UNCLE and get on with the loving. Judith Arnold is a perennial favorite whose keen wit and way with mystery always hits the mark.***½

EXCERPT

None of the women in the Shipwreck looked like wife material to Joe.

The usual crowd filled the tavern: sun-burned beach bums, a few arty types, some Navy guys and the standard allotment of amateur fishermen, professional fishermen and big talkers eager to regale any sucker who wandered by with stories about the one that got away. The Shipwreck’s female clientele fell into similar categories—boaters, Navy personnel, beach bunnies, artistes. Joe knew at least half of them. The other half he figured he probably didn’t want to know.

“She’ll be here,” Kitty promised, sidling up to the bar and slapping down her tray. “I need two rum-runners and a Cutty on ice.”

Joe wrenched his attention from the noisy, dimly lit room, with its knotted plank flooring, its walls draped with weathered nets, and its ceiling equipped with broad-blade fans that churned the sticky air without doing much to cool it. In front of him the bar stretched left and right, his personal chest-high fortress. In front of the bar stood Kitty, his head waitress. Despite the heat, her skin was dry, her platinum-blond hair only the slightest bit droopy.

“Two rum-runners and a Cutty on ice,” he repeated, reaching for glasses. “What time did you tell her to come?”

“I didn’t. She’ll get here when she gets here, okay?”

“This is important, you know.”

Kitty snorted. “If it’s all that important, why don’t you marry me?”

Grinning, Joe cascaded a generous portion of scotch over the ice cubes in a highball glass. “That would make me, what? Your fourth husband?”

“Fifth, but who’s counting?”

“You know I love you, Kitty. But you’re exactly what I don’t need right now.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” She returned his grin, then waltzed off, her tray balanced above her shoulder on one splayed hand. Joe observed the sway of her hips with detached admiration. She had big curves top and bottom, and she dressed in clothing that flaunted them—tonight, a snug T-shirt and fire-engine red shorts. Her legs were a tad thick, but her other dimensions were superlative enough to overcome that flaw. She probably would have been even more attractive if she didn’t bleach her hair. Toward the end of every month, the dark roots made her look a little seedy.

Joe and Kitty had slept together once, years ago—between her second and third husbands, if he wasn’t mistaken. But they hadn’t set the world on fire, and they’d decided that from that point on they would be just friends. In any case, a four-times married bleached-blond woman whose brassiere cups runneth over wasn’t the kind of woman Joe needed right now.

He needed someone proper and demure, someone stable and respectable and...boring. The woman Joe was looking for had to be bland and inoffensive. No dark roots, no wise-ass sense of humor, no D-cup bra and sassy hip-wiggling. The woman he was going to marry had to be exactly the sort of woman he’d never bother with, if he had any choice in the matter.

But he didn’t have a choice.

When she’d arrived at the Shipwreck for her shift that evening, Kitty had told him she’d found exactly the woman for him. “She moved into my building just a few days ago. Unattached, quiet, keeps to herself. I ran into her in the laundry room, introduced myself and said, ‘I know a guy who’s looking for a lady just like you.’”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. She just kinda flinched.”

“Great,” Joe had snorted. At five o’clock, the bar had begun to perk up. The early-bird drinkers had staggered home to sleep off whatever they’d spent the daylight hours imbibing, and the evening drinkers were starting to trickle in. Joe had been filling bowls with peanuts when Kitty had sashayed in through the back door and filed her report on this new neighbor of hers.

“No, listen,” Kitty had continued. “It wasn’t you she was flinching about. I said to her, ‘The guy in question is my boss, and he’s desperate to get married.’”

“Terrific,” Joe had muttered. “You paint me as desperate, and she flinches at the mere thought of meeting me. You have such a way with people, Kitty.”

Kitty had brushed off his sarcasm. “Damned right I do. Who gets the best tips around here?”

“They’re tipping your anatomy, not your personality.”

“Whatever works. So anyway, so I said, ‘Why don’t you mosey on over to the Shipwreck tonight and check him out? He doesn’t bite.’”

“That must have really reassured her.”

“All right, look, you don’t want my help? Just say the word, Joe. Stay single and see where that gets you.”

Where that would get him was alone and bereft. His lawyer had told him that if he wanted to hold onto Lizard he would have to clean up his act and settle down, attach himself to a good woman and create a stable family situation. Joe knew all the good women in Key West. Most of them were married, and the rest, like Kitty, presented the sort of image that would have the majority of family court judges delivering Lizard to the Prescotts in no time flat. If this new neighbor of Kitty’s worked out, Joe would be eternally grateful.

He wished he’d had more than a few hours’ warning that he was going to be meeting a prospective bride that night. He’d showed up at the bar wearing his everyday garb—a loose cotton shirt, old jeans and sneakers without socks. If he’d known Kitty had invited a woman to stop by and meet him, he would have dressed in something a little nicer—and he would have shaved. As a rule he shaved only every third day. Tonight was day two.

He surveyed the room again. Two women huddled in front of the juke box, their backs to him. Even in the dull amber light he recognized one of them from the pink-rose patch on the hip pocket of her shorts. Sabrina would have made a good wife, he supposed—at least she would have been a pleasure to find in his bed after a long day. She and Joe had been an item several years ago. But one long weekend, when he’d tagged along with a couple of buddies doing a round-trip sailing jaunt to Miami, Sabrina had taken up with a biker. Sabrina had given him the boot after a few weeks, but her attempt to reconcile with Joe had gotten kind of complicated, and then Lizard had arrived, and Joe had found himself with more important things to worry about.

Sabrina had been damned good in bed, though—even if she had lousy taste in music, a fact he was reminded of when she shoved her quarters into the juke box and the room filled with the nasal whine of one of those one-named girl singers. Someday when Joe had a free minute, he was going to yank all the whiny-one-named-girl discs out of the juke box so he’d never have to listen to them again.

Scanning the crowd once more, he noticed a woman entering the bar. She was on the heavy side, maybe a few years his senior, her hair a dark halo of frizz in the humid heat. Okay, he thought magnanimously. Assuming she wasn’t too much older than him, she’d do. If Joe were to marry someone past, say, forty, a judge might not view it as a stable family situation. But mid-thirties probably wasn’t too old. And so what if his wife wasn’t exactly heart-stopping gorgeous? This was strictly business. Joe didn’t have to love the woman. He just had to marry her.

He watched her weave among the tables, heading toward him. Turning away, he checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. What with the atmospheric lighting and rows of liquor bottles lining the shelves in front of the mirror, he couldn’t see much, and what he did see registered pretty low on the first-impression scale. He ran his fingers through his long, shaggy hair, scowled at the bristle of beard shading his jaw, and straightened out his shirt. Spinning back, he presented the woman with what he hoped was a congenial smile.

Except that she wasn’t there to receive it. She had joined a group of guys at a table near the back. In fact, she was perched on one man’s lap.

Suffering a twinge of regret tempered with relief, he nodded to Lois, his other primo waitress, as she hollered at him for a couple of Buds. He snapped off the tops of two bottles, set them and a pair of iced mugs on her tray, and sent her off to serve her customers.

No sooner had she departed than Kitty was back, requesting two pina coladas. Joe busied himself with the blender. He didn’t say a word, but Kitty apparently read volumes in his silence, because she said, “Stop worrying. She’ll be here.”

“What does she look like?” he asked, recalling with some shame his immediate response to the frizzy-haired woman who’d come in.

“What do you mean, what does she look like?” Kitty arranged the frosty drinks on her tray and grinned slyly. “She’s nowhere near as pretty as me, of course. But you could do worse. As a matter of fact—” she lifted the tray into its one-handed perch “—you have done worse.”

“Thanks.” He watched Kitty saunter back into the crowd, then rinsed out the blender. His gaze strayed to the clock on the back wall. It resembled a ship’s wheel, with thick wooden bars radiating out from a hub. It was actually quite tacky, which was why he’d bought it for the Shipwreck. Tacky was the ambiance he was aiming for.

Right now the clock wasn’t just tacky; it was annoying. It read nine-fifty-three. If this lady friend of Kitty’s couldn’t get her butt down to the bar at a reasonable hour, when the subject was as momentous as her potential marriage to Joe, she wasn’t going to work out. Joe was used to night owls, but he doubted a night-owl woman would make a wife decent and demure and proper enough to persuade a judge to let Joe keep Lizard.

Brick arrived through the back door. Joe called a greeting to his second-in-command, and Brick grunted in response. Grunting was about the limit of Brick’s communication skills, but he made the best tequila sunrises on the island, and at the Shipwreck such a talent was considered far more important than eloquence.

A trio of women entered the bar. Joe knew them all. He’d dated them all. One of them waved to him as the threesome worked their way through the room, looking for a table.

“Two shots of Cutty, neat!”

“I need a Stinger, a Boxcar and a Gimlet!”

“Three rum-and-Cokes, hold the Coke!”

“A glass of chardonnay.”

The noise level had increased as the ship’s-wheel clock rounded ten p.m., and Joe’s skull was starting to echo. All the stools along the bar were occupied; dozens of customers loomed behind those seated, waiting for someone to stand and free up a stool. On the juke box the whining woman was replaced by real music—Van Morrison—and the temperature in the crowded room ratcheted up a few degrees.

Kitty stood at the pick-up station, smiling mysteriously. “I said, a glass of chardonnay.”
“Who in this joint would order white wine?” Joe grumbled, rummaging through one of the refrigerators below the bar for a bottle of the stuff.

“Your fiancée,” Kitty answered.

Joe bolted upright, the chilled bottle clutched in his hand. His heart did a tap dance against his ribs and his throat momentarily squeezed shut. He hated to admit how anxious he was. If this neighbor of Kitty’s didn’t work out, he was going to have to go shopping for a wife on the mainland. Things were getting tight.

Not desperate, though. He wasn’t going to let on—to Kitty or anyone else—that he was close to desperation.

“A white-wine sipper, huh?” he murmured, sliding a goblet from the overhead rack and standing it on Kitty’s tray. “Where is she?”

“Over near the front door. In case she wants to make a quick escape, I guess.”

He peered through the mob of bodies in the dimly lit room, but he couldn’t tell which one she might be. “I’ll bring her drink to her. What’s she wearing?”

“A white dress.”

“What’s her name again?”

“Pamela.”

“Pamela what?”

“How the hell should I know? I asked her if she’d consider marrying you, not what her last name was.”

“Okay. Brick? Give me ten,” he called to his assistant once he’d poured a hefty dose of wine into the goblet.

Brick grunted.

Joe managed a smile of thanks for Kitty, although he was feeling uncharacteristically nervous. It wasn’t like him to get twisted in knots over a woman—or over anything, for that matter. Crises came and went, and when they were truly awful, he indulged in some intense moping. But then he got over it. Rolling with the punches was his preferred modus operandi.

But this was different. This was wife-hunting. Joe had never proposed to a woman before, and here he was, about to propose to a total stranger.

Not really propose, he reassured himself, sauntering around the end of the bar and working his way through the throng, barely pausing to acknowledge the greetings the regulars hurled at him. What he was offering the woman was less a proposal than a proposition.

Scratch that. If she was a white-wine sipper in a white dress—already dressed for her wedding, apparently—she wasn’t the sort to be propositioned. He had to approach her in a classy way.

And he didn’t even know her last name, damn it.

“Hey, Joey!” a burly voice reached him from behind. He smiled and waved vaguely, but his gaze was riveted toward the screened front door that opened onto Southard Street. Standing next to it, looking incredibly out of place, was a woman in a white dress.

Not bad, he thought, one set of apprehensions fading and another set kicking in. The white dress she had on resembled a tank shirt that fell to mid-calf, the hem notched a few inches on the side seams. The way the cotton cloth draped her body indicated that she was somewhat lacking in the curves department. Her arms were slim, her shoulders bony. Her feet were strapped into flat leather sandals. Her long, graceful neck was framed in ash-blond hair that fell to her shoulders with barely a ripple. Gold button earrings glinted through the silky locks. A matching gold bangle circled one slender wrist.

Her face was as angular as the rest of her, her nose and chin narrow, her cheeks hollow. Her eyes were a pale silver gray. In fact, all of her had a pale, silver-gray quality. Obviously she was a recent arrival on the island. No one who’d been on Key West for any length of time could stay that pale.

A little washed-out, but definitely an interesting face. Not quite pretty, but intriguing. It was the sort of face a man could look at for a long time without growing tired of it.

Her expression was cautious. Maybe a touch skeptical. Haunted. Those eyes, so large and pale, seemed troubled.

The notion of marriage troubled him more than a little, too. But the alternative—losing Lizard—was far worse.

He took a step closer to her, and another step. In her search of the room, she stared at him, past him, and then at him again. Noticing the wine glass in his hand, she straightened up and eyed him warily. She bit her lip. Her teeth were as white as her dress.

“Hi,” he said, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt. “You must be Pamela. I’m the guy who wants to marry you.”

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Memo: The Billionaire's Proposal

MEMO: THE BILLIONAIRE'S PROPOSAL
by Melissa McClone

Harlequin Romance #4120
September 2010

2009 Romantic Times Harlequin Romance Nominee 

Note to self: when stepping back into your billionaire boss's world:

Remember why you turned him down all those years ago: because infamous playboys like Drake Llewelyn are trouble with a capital T!

He plays to win. You can't afford to take a gamble on love and lose, no matter how much he says he's changed.

So arm yourself against his movie-star looks, devastating charm, intoxicating smile... Oh, no! This is going to be so much harder than I thought!

 NOTE FROM AUTHOR

The inspiration for this Harlequin Romance came from a YouTube video. I was looking for a specific song and stumbled across a fan-made video about Ioan Gruffudd's Lancelot from the movie King Arthur. Talk about sexy and hero material! In my mind, I transported Lancelot to modern-day England. He wasn't a knight, but a billionaire. But I had to find someway to keep the armor! That was tricky, but I think it worked. You'll have to let me know!

                                                                            Melissa


 REVIEWS
 From Romantic Times:

MEMO: THE BILLIONAIRE'S PROPOSAL (4.5) by Melissa McClone: Five years ago, Chaney Sullivan was an intern for media tycoon Drake Llewelyn's company. Now Chaney's filling in for a friend as the associate producer of the cable show Drake hosts, and the attraction that both tried to ignore before becomes an issue. Drake wants to have a fling, but Chaney still believes in love despite a recent hurt, and she isn't going to settle for anything less than a full commitment. But Drake's past makes that a problem. Smart characters, witty dialogue and a deft combination of reality and fantasy add up to a great read. And hero Drake is truly scrumptious.

Reviewed By: Catherine Witmer

EXCERPT

"Damsel in distress here." Struggling to carry a heavy box full of what felt like bricks, Chaney eyed the row of antique armor on display in the Great Hall of Abbotsford Castle. "Hey, knights in shining armor. Can I get some help please?"

The polished suits stood at attention, weapons in hand as if ready for battle, but not one moved.

The story of her life. Chaney laughed.

Okay, she might not have the happily ever after ending she once thought she'd have, but she couldn't complain too much. Not many people got to fly to London and stay at a luxurious castle with all expenses paid while working as the associate producer on a highly rated cable channel show for three days.

This was the kind of hands-on production experience her boss Justin said she needed if she wanted to have a shot at the promotion she'd been eyeing. Okay, dreaming about since the job notice appeared, and she'd started filling in the application. Knowing finance was one thing, but knowing how projects got made and being in the trenches on a set was another. That was why he let her use her vacation days to come to England this week.

And she had one person to thank for the opportunity.

Gemma.

Her friend and former roommate was counting on Chaney to make sure the taping of The Billionaire's Playground, a travel show profiling the vacation spots of the uber-wealthy, went off without a hitch. Gemma's job required her to look out for the cable channel's interest, to put out fires and most importantly make sure the show stayed on budget and on schedule. Chaney wouldn't let her friend down.

The container full of electrical gear slipped in Chaney's sweaty hands. Her arm muscles strained against the weight. Her eyeglasses slid down her nose.

Dropping the hefty box on the gleaming wood floor would be an expensive no-no, one that could have historical implications given the medieval age of the castle. She tightened her grip, but it didn't help.

"May I help you, my lady?" a male voice asked from behind her.

The Welsh accent reminded her of Drake Llewelyn, but Gemma had said another billionaire would probably host this episode because he had a previous engagement. Chaney had been relieved to know she wouldn't have to see him again.

"Thank you." She rested the container against her bended knee. "I should have borrowed a baggage cart or dolly."

"Allow me."

She glanced back at her rescuer. A man wearing chain mail, black leather and armor plates on his shoulders, chest and legs approached. And not just any man...

Drake Llewelyn.

Her breath caught in her throat. He looked like a knight from King Arthur's Round Table, not a billionaire businessman whose latest pet project had him hosting a travel show for his cable channel.

She had to admit the look suited him. Awareness fluttered through her.

Too bad Drake Llewelyn wasn't a noble knight. He didn't follow any code of chivalry. His armor should be tarnished, not polished. She really shouldn't care what he looked like.
He walked toward her with the grace and agility of an athlete. The armor didn't slow him down one bit.

Uh-oh. She stiffened with apprehension. The costume must mean he was hosting this episode after all. That meant she would be working with him for the next three days.

"Hello, Chaney."

The warm sound of his voice seeped through her. He took the box out of her arms as if it weighed no more than a container of laundry detergent.

She pushed her glasses back into the place. Her tired and dry eyes had made her take out her contact lenses three hours ago. "Thanks."

"Thank you for coming at such short notice and filling in for Gem," he said. "Are you up to speed on the show and this episode?"

Her heart thudded. "Yes."

Though the show was the last thing on her mind at the moment.

Two familiar brown eyes, with gold flecks flickering like flames, stared into hers and sent Chaney's temperature soaring. His mussed hair made him look as if he'd just returned to the castle after a crusade and was ready to bed the first female who caught his eye. And his beard...

She did a double-take. He'd always been clean-shaven before. "You grew a beard."

"For the taping." Drake ran his fingers over the hair on his chin. "Not as full as I'd hoped, but I thought a beard would look more knightly."

"It does." She normally didn't like men with facial hair, but the mustache and beard combined with the costume made Drake look dark, dangerous and sexy. A black knight who, no doubt, had his pick of maidens, courtesans and queens.

Chaney swallowed around the crown jewel size lump in her throat.

"Where would you like the box?" he asked.

The deep rumble of his voice coupled with his accent made her stomach cartwheel and do a series of back flips like a gymnast during a floor exercise routine. The unexpected reaction put every one of her nerve endings on alert.

"By the lights." Her voice sounded low, almost husky and totally unnatural. The same odd way it felt to be giving Drake Llewelyn orders or feeling the bolt of unwelcome attraction. She cleared her dry throat. "Please place the box next to the lights."

As he carefully set the box where one of tonight's scenes would be taped, chain mail clinked. The sound echoed through the cavernous hall until swallowed up by the tapestry-covered walls.

Drake stood, looking taller than she remembered. She hadn't remembered his eyelashes being so thick and long, either. He seemed more handsome if that were possible.

Maybe she was more tired than she realized. Exhaustion could easily explain her reaction to him.

His gaze raked over Chaney.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "If I'd known we were supposed to dress up, I would have brought my beer wench costume."

Drake laughed. "It's been too long, Chaney."

Five years, one month and, she did a quick calculation, about five days. Not long enough in her opinion.