Mary McBride - The Magnate's Takeover - The Magnate's Takeover

The Magnate’s Takeover by Mary McBride

“Here’s to you, Libby, darlin’. Now that you know who I really am, what do you intend to do about it?”

He didn’t have a clue how she’d found out, but it had been bound to happen from the second he’d introduced himself to her as an architect. What kind of fool was he, thinking he’d find “regular love” wearing a disguise?

He really couldn’t blame Libby one bit for being so angry, as would he if it had happened in reverse. But it wasn’t the worst lie that had ever been told. Hell. What if he’d actually been an architect who tried to pass himself off as David Halstrom? Surely that would have been a larger crime and would have angered her even more.

He drained his glass, refilled it, then sat on a leather couch, staring south, wondering what to do next. For the first time in his life, David didn’t have a clue.

The Tycoon’s Secret by Kasey Michaels

“It’s all about that money, isn’t it? You’re just used to getting your own way.”

“Wealth has its perks, I won’t deny that. So, how am I doing? Convinced yet?”

She didn’t say anything else for a few tense moments, moments during which they both, he was sure, readjusted the conversation to where all of this verbal foreplay was really heading.

When she finally spoke again, he knew they were both on the same page.

“I don’t have a price, Sam,” she warned him tightly.

“We all have a price, Ms Halliday. It just isn’t always money.”

Available in September 2009 from Mills & Boon® Desire™

The Magnate’s Takeover by Mary McBride

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The Tycoon’s Secret by Kasey Michaels

Dante’s Wedding Deception by Day Leclaire

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Mistaken Mistress by Tessa Radley

The Desert King by Olivia Gates

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An Affair with the Princess by Michelle Celmer

BY

BY

MILLS & BOON ®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

When it comes to writing romance, historical or contemporary, Mary McBrideis a natural. What else would anyone expect from someone whose parents met on a blind date on Valentine’s Day, and who met her own husband—whose middle name happens to be Valentine!—on 14th February as well?

She lives in Saint Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two sons. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can write to her c/o PO Box 411202, Saint Louis, MO 63141, USA, or contact her online at McBride101@aol.com.

Dear Reader,

What fun it was to work on this series with three great pals who are also terrific writers—Joan Hohl, Leslie LaFoy and Kasey Michaels. In the planning stage, we really kept the internet buzzing with our back-and-forth e-mails.

Here’s hoping we’ve managed to bring you four terrific stories about people who all deserve to win a million dollars.

Happy reading!

Best wishes,

Mary McBride

Well, my darlings, it’s almost Halloween and I have oodles of treats and goodies for you. Shall we talk about the RB again? That oh-so-generous and oh-so-mysterious Reclusive Billionaire is believed to have struck again, anointing a candidate somewhere in the Midwest—that would be Fly-Over Country for most of you, my dear readers—with his largesse.

Alas, our information does not extend beyond mere geography at this date. Surely someone out there in the vast Heartland has a clue that he or she would be more than delighted to share. Call me, darling. I am, as they say, all ears.

Sam Balfour slapped the newspaper on the desktop as if he were swatting a fly. “This woman is worse than a rabid bloodhound,” he said.

S. Edward Balfour IV, otherwise known as Uncle Ned, glanced up from his own newspaper. “She’s persistent, I’ll grant you that. We could use a few more like her on our team.”

“Our team, as you so casually put it, Uncle Ned, is about to be exposed by this harpy. Doesn’t that worry you in the least?”

“No,” his uncle said. “Actually, I have other things to worry about. Here.” He handed a large book across the desk. “Take a look at this. Tell me what you think.”

Sam, still grinding his teeth, flipped through the pages, mostly photographs of old derelict motels in the Midwest. “They’re nice pictures,” he said, “if you like things like that.”

“I do,” his uncle said as he reached into his desk drawer to produce a green folder which he passed to Sam. “Take care of this for me, will you?”

“You’re crazy, you know, to continue with this little game,” Sam cautioned him.

His uncle merely smiled. “I suspect we’re all a bit crazy, one way or another. Read through the folder, Sam. Then see that the usual check reaches Miss Libby Jost no later than Friday.”

Sam could only sigh. Here we go again…

“Here’s to you, you magnificent building.”

Libby Jost stared out the window and raised her wine glass once again to toast the nearly completed 20-story convention hotel on the other side of the highway just west of St. Louis. Now that it was autumn and the trees were nearly bare, and even across six lanes of traffic, the bright lights of the Halstrom Marquis flickered like rubies in what was left of her red Chianti.

“And here’s to you, Mr. Halstrom, whoever you are and if you really do exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She swallowed the last of the wine, and then a silly, not-too-sober smile played at the edges of her mouth. “What took you so long?”

She put down her empty glass, stood up and then immediately realized she had celebrated a bit too much. Way too much, in fact, for a person who rarely drank at all. Her last drink, incidentally, had been an obligatory glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve. She was definitely out of practice, she decided, and figured it was time for a very sobering slap of cold October air, so she flipped the main switch for the outside lights and wobbled out the door.

Once outside, Libby glanced up at the ancient neon No Vacancy sign flickering above the office door. How sad was that? she thought. After all these years, all these decades, it was probably some sort of miracle that the V, two c ’s and half of the y still managed to faintly sputter. The mere sight of the sign might have completely depressed her a few months ago, but it didn’t tonight. It didn’t bother her at all because she knew there would be a brand-new, far better sign very soon, and instead of perpetual vacancies, the old Haven View Motor Court would once more be full of guests and good times.

Again, as she’d done a thousand times these past few weeks, she gave silent thanks to the anonymous Santa Claus who’d sent her a check for fifty thousand dollars in appreciation of her recent book of photographs of old, downtrodden motels in the Midwest. Libby Jost was, first and foremost, a serious photographer who had worked for the St. Louis newspaper for nearly a decade. She’d garnered numerous awards in the past, but most of them came in the form of plaques or framed certificates usually accompanied by long, boring speeches and polite applause. She’d gotten a check for two hundred bucks once for a photo of the Gateway Arch in morning mist, but never anything close to fifty thousand dollars.

The huge, unexpected check not only sustained her pride in her work, but it also provided her the wherewithal to help her aunt Elizabeth, the woman who had raised her here at this run-down motel after the death of her parents in a car accident when Libby was just a toddler.