Donna Clayton - Close Proximity

My, how she’d love to run her fingers down the naked length of him. She could only imagine how hard, how sculpted, his body would feel.

Libby tightened her grip on the chopsticks until she feared they’d snap in half.

Soft blue denim hugged his butt. And what a nice, tight butt it was, too.

Libby grinned. She was being so bad. She knew it, and it was so unlike her. But what harm was there in checking out the view? she wondered, her smile widening.

What she’d really like was to see his slick, black river of hair flowing free against the bare flesh covering the wide, strong expanse of his muscular back. To feel those silken tresses against her own naked flesh. A loose and languid chuckle rose in her throat, and she did her best to stifle it.

“What has you grinning from ear to ear?” he asked.

DONNA CLAYTON

is fascinated with Native American cultures. After researching the traditions and philosophies of various Pacific Coast Indians, she strove to create what she hopes is a richly textured history and a strong present-day sense of community for the fictional Mokee-kittuun tribe featured in her story. An award-winning, bestselling author, Donna lives in Delaware with her husband, two sons and Jake, her four-year-old Border collie.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Meet the Coltons—a California dynasty with a legacy of privilege and power.

Libby Corbett: High-powered attorney. She came home to clear her father’s name. But now that her life is in jeopardy, this take-charge woman must entrust everything to one man—a man who has a chip on his shoulder almost as big as her own!

Rafe James: Native American rancher. A proud loner, he knows the only way to help the town through its crisis is to get close to the one woman who threatens to topple all his defenses.

Blake Fallon: Tough-to-tame director. In spite of his rules against mixing business with pleasure, anyone can see there’s something going on between the Hopechest Ranch’s director and his loyal assistant….

Todd Lamb: Ruthless tycoon. Now that he’s been named head of Springer, Inc., all the long hours he’s spent devoted to his work are about to pay off. Or are they?

This book is joyously dedicated to fellow authors

Maggie Price, Jean Brashear and Cara Colter. Ladies,

you made this a rollicking adventure, and I’m grateful

to the bones to have had this chance to work with you.

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

T he steps of the courthouse were crowded with camera-wielding media, placard-waving radicals and other individuals who were just plain curious. And to think, Prosperino used to be such a sleepy little town.

With traffic at a standstill, Rafe James sat in his pickup truck watching the circus unfold before him. The irate anti-oil-company chants of several ringleaders could be heard even though his windows were rolled up tight against the chilly March morning.

Having lived most of his life on the Crooked Arrow Reservation, Rafe didn’t travel into town often anymore. Nearly everything he needed could be bought or bartered for right on the reservation, so Rafe didn’t have much to do with the outside world these days. There simply wasn’t much need, unless he had a side job going.

Two different insurance companies called upon him at times to do a little investigative work. And he also used Prosperino as a base for meeting with buyers for his beloved horses. Equestrians from all over the world had purchased the Appaloosas he bred and trained. He didn’t think of this as a bragging right, just fact. A fact he took pride in.

For the most part, Rafe kept to the rez, among his own kind. However, he’d found himself drawn into town every single day since David Corbett, the vice-president of Springer, Inc. had been arrested. The need for information regarding the oil company’s problems had Rafe’s investigative antennae on alert, urging him to listen to gossip, devour each newspaper article he found on the case, study every word of the local evening news. Hell, the story had hit the national news lately. And it was going worldwide, he realized when he saw the CNN van parked up the street.

No way was David Corbett guilty of the disregard for human life and attempted murder charges he was currently facing. The man was too honest, too fair-minded, too compassionate, too honorable to have intentionally tainted the water supply with DMBE, or any other chemical, for that matter. Rafe didn’t care what the EPA had discovered, or that the evidence shed a poor light on Springer’s ex-VP. And Rafe wanted to laugh when he’d read the FBI’s so-called theory.

Oh, someone had deliberately contaminated the water. And that someone was involved with Springer. But the Hopechest Ranch for children hadn’t been the target as the FBI believed. And neither had the town of Prosperino.

Rafe had his own suspicions about this whole mess. But who was going to listen to an Indian playing a guessing game filled with speculation and conjecture? Nobody, that’s who.

All Rafe knew for sure was that David Corbett was innocent. Rafe’s gut told him the man was being used as a scapegoat. And if there was one thing he hated, it was when someone took the blame for an offense he didn’t commit, when someone was forced into the role of victim.

Victim. The very word turned Rafe’s blood to acid. Memories swam and churned in his head. But he cut them off, strangled the life out of them before they had a chance to come into focus.

This wasn’t about him. It was about Corbett.

Rafe sighed as he thought about the dire straits the man was in. But Rafe knew him to be intelligent and savvy. Surely, Corbett would get himself out of this tight spot. He’d find himself a good lawyer. Surely, the evidence could somehow be refuted—

Like the eyes of an eagle homing on prey, his gaze zeroed in on the woman who exited the front doors of the courthouse. The morning sun glinted off the long tumble of her hair, turning it the color of polished copper. Immediately, she was besieged by media people hounding her with questions. The radicals pressed in on her as well, shouting slurs, chanting angry accusations.