Metsy Hingle - The Wager

“I have no intention of selling the Princess.”

Olivia’s words hit Josh like a sucker punch, and he had to bite back the oath on the tip of his tongue. Yet when it came to the Princess, the very first hotel built by his grandfather, it was difficult not to let his emotions come into play. To see the Logan Hotel banner flying over the Princess again had been his dream for as long as he could remember. And once again, that dream remained just out of reach.

“Please hear me out,” she told him.

Josh nodded, settled back in his seat.

“I want to see the Princess returned to her throne, Joshua. Once I see that happen, I’ll turn over the reins. From the day your grandfather signed her over to me, she’s been run by a Jardine.”

“But your grandchildren have no interest in running the Princess. The only other Jardine left to run it is you,” Josh pointed out.

“Not necessarily,” Olivia told him. “There is another alternative.”

“Do you intend to tell me who this mysterious Jardine relative is?”

“My granddaughter. Or I suppose I should say, my other granddaughter.”

www.mirabooks.co.uk

My heartfelt thanks go to the following people who helped me give life to The Wager:

Dianne Moggy, Editorial Director of MIRA Books, for believing in me and this project. Without her support, this book would never have been written.

Karen Kosztolnyik, my editor, whose support, guidance and patience were invaluable to me in the writing of this book.

Tara Gavin of Silhouette Books for her support and endorsement.

Linda Hayes, friend and former agent, for her years of encouragement and advice.

Karen Solem, my agent and guiding force, for her enthusiasm and support.

Sandra Brown, my dear friend and mentor, for her encouragement and support.

Dave and Judi Burrus, dear friends and hoteliers, who introduced me to the business of luxury hotels.

R. A. Jardine, banker and friend, whose surname served as inspiration.

Linda Kay, Hailey North, Rexanne Becnel,Erica Spindler and Karen Young, fellow authorsand friends, for their support and encouragement.

The remarkable, talented staff at MIRA Books fortheir support and expertise.

And as always, a very special thanks goes to my children and family whose love and understanding enables me to spin tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

For Jim

My husband, My lover, my friend

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

The sound of skidding tires and metal crashing against metal finally stopped. So did the screams. Lying in the rain beside the mangled car, Laura Harte opened her eyes and listened. But all she heard now was the steady beat of the August rain and the distant hum of traffic from the San Francisco road. She drew in a breath and winced at the sharp ache in her ribs.

Then she caught it—the metallic scent of blood. Tamping down on a spurt of panic, Laura struggled to sit up and gasped as white-hot pain shot through her shoulder. Her stomach pitched. Her vision blurred, but not before she’d noted the odd angle at which her arm hung. Gritting her teeth, she managed to half walk, half crawl from the twisted car to the side of the dark road where her mother lay in a crumbled heap. The fear that had bolted through her when she’d seen the lights of the truck coming at them hit Laura again as she stared at her mother’s pale face. “Momma, can you hear me?”

Her mother’s eyelashes fluttered. “Looks like I ruined your big celebration,” she said, but the grimace that followed diffused the lighthearted remark.

“I don’t care about the awards banquet,” Laura soothed. Right now she didn’t care about her job, the promotion, anything—only her mother and the ragged sound of her breathing. “You’re going to be all right. Just hang on while I go get help.”

“No. There’s not enough time,” her mother said, her voice raspy. She caught Laura’s hand, held it. “There are things I need to tell you…things I should have told you a long time ago. About me, about your father.”

“Shh. Don’t talk anymore. You need to save your strength.” Biting back the panic threatening to choke her, Laura tried to keep her voice calm as she said, “You can tell me all about your great romance with daddy again later. Right now, try to lie still. I’m going up to the road to flag down help. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“T-too late for…hospital.”

“No, it’s not,” Laura insisted. She didn’t care if her mother was a nurse. She was wrong. It wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be too late. Then she heard it—the squeal of sirens—and nearly wept with relief. “Listen! Do you hear that? Sirens! That means help is on the way. All you have to do is hang on a little longer.”

Her mother squeezed her fingers, but her grip had grown weaker. “I’m sorry, baby. I always thought I’d have more time,” she said, her voice thready. “I need to tell you about your father…to explain…”

“I know all about Daddy.” Did her mother’s insistence on talking about her dead husband mean the injuries were even worse than she feared? Hadn’t she read somewhere that when a person was dying their thoughts focused on the past? No! Her mother was not dying, Laura told herself as tears ran down her cheeks and mingled with the rain. To comfort herself as much as her mother, Laura repeated the oft-told tale. “Daddy was a navy aviator who came to the base hospital where you worked as a nurse. He was the most handsome man you’d ever seen, with beautiful blue eyes and a kind smile. The two of you fell madly in love and after a whirlwind courtship, you got married.” The beautiful, tragic tale of her parents’ romance cut short by her father’s death in Vietnam had been as much a part of her life as breathing. Her father may have died before she was born, but Laura had grown up loving him.

“We were so much in love,” her mother whispered.

“I know,” Laura said softly, growing more terrified with each moment by her mother’s labored breathing and the gray cast to her skin. Then she heard it—voices calling out, footsteps. “Over here,” Laura cried out. “And please…hurry!”

“Laura,” her mother gasped. Her fingers tightened. “Remember I love you.”

“Momma, don’t—”

“Promise me you’ll go to Paul. Tell him—” A harsh cough stopped her.

“Don’t talk anymore,” Laura ordered, alarmed by her mother’s coughing and the pain in her dark eyes. The hand that held hers seemed to have grown colder.

“Go to Paul. Tell him I said to give you the key to the second box. And please, try to understand, darling,” she said, her voice growing weaker still. “Try to forgive me.”

“Momma, you’re not making any sense. What key? What box—”

But it was too late. Her mother’s eyes closed. The hand holding hers went limp. And then came that anguished animal scream of pain. It wasn’t until much, much later that Laura realized that the scream she’d heard that night had come from her.