Diana Palmer - The Maverick - The Maverick / Magnate’s Make-Believe Mistress

No one can resist a book by Diana Palmer!

“Nobody does it better.”

— New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly…Heartwarming.”

—Publishers Weekly on Renegade

“A compelling tale…that packs an emotional wallop.”

—Booklist on Renegade

“Sensual and suspenseful”

— Booklist on Lawless

“Diana Palmer is a mesmerising storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering pure, undiluted romance. I love her stories.”

— New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“The dialogue is charming, the characters likeable and the sex sizzling.”

—Publishers Weekly on Once in Paris

By

By

www.millsandboon.co.uk

By

DIANA PALMERhas a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. With more than forty million copies of her books in print, Diana is one of North America’s most beloved authors and considered one of the top ten romance authors in the United States. Diana’s hobbies include gardening, archeology, anthropology, art, astronomy and music. She has been married to James Kyle for over thirty-five years. They have one son, Blayne, who is married to the former Christina Clayton, and a granddaughter, Selena Marie.

To Julie Benefiel, who designed my cowboy quilt (hand pieced by Nancy Caudill),

To Nancy Mason, who quilted it,

And to Janet Borchert, who put together a 2007 hardcover book of all my covers, including foreign ones, along with Jade, Tracy, Nancy, Carey, Amy, Renata, Maria, LeeAnn, Efy, Kay, Peggy, Hang, Ronnie, Mona and Debbie of the Diana Palmer Bulletin Board.

Also to everyone who participated in the compendium summaries of all my books, and to Nancy for the quilted covers for the loose-leaf notebooks.

With many thanks and much love.

Dear Reader,

Of all the characters I have created over the past thirty years, Harley Fowler has been the most complex. He started life in Mercenary’s Woman as a cowboy who worked for mercenary Eb Scott’s friend, the enigmatic Cy Parks. He was a braggart, a blowhard and a pain in the neck, but we got glimpses of the man he might become. In The Winter Soldier, he grew up. When confronted by violent drug dealers, he discovered that, while he was pretending to be a professional soldier, Cy Parks, his reclusive boss, was the real article. Harley swallowed his pride and walked bravely into gunfire beside Cy Parks, Micah Steele and Eb Scott to take down a dangerous drug distribution center.

I have had many readers ask for Harley’s own book, but until now I hadn’t found just the right venue for him. Sometimes if you rush a story into publication, you do damage to the character it is intended to spotlight. I waited until I was certain I had the right story for Harley. Now I am.

I hope all of you who wanted to know more about Cy Parks’s mysterious foreman will be pleased at the revelations. As you might notice, this book is the beginning of a murder mystery that will unravel in subsequent books, most notably in the story of Kilraven and Winnie Sinclair and in the following year’s novel about Kilraven’s half-brother, Jon Blackhawk. Don’t be impatient. It’s going to be a good ride. I promise.

Love to all of you from your biggest fan,

Diana Palmer

Harley Fowler was staring so hard at his list of chores that he walked right into a young brunette as he headed into the hardware store in Jacobsville, Texas. He looked up, shocked, when she fell back against the open door, glaring at him.

“I’ve heard of men getting buried in their work, but this is too much,” she told him with a speaking look. She smoothed over her short black hair, feeling for a bump where she’d collided with the door. Deep blue eyes glared up into his pale blue ones. She noticed that he had light brown hair and was wearing a baseball cap that seemed to suit him. He was sexy-looking.

“I’m not buried in my work,” he said curtly. “I’m trying to get back to work, and shopping chores are keeping me from it.”

“Which doesn’t explain why you’re assaulting women with doors. Does it?” she mused.

His eyes flared. “I didn’t assault you with a door. You walked into me.”

“I did not. You were staring at that piece of paper so hard that you wouldn’t have seen a freight train coming.” She peered over his arm at the list. “Pruning shears? Two new rakes?” She pursed her lips, but smiling blue eyes stared at him. “You’re obviously somebody’s gardener,” she said, noting his muddy shoes and baseball cap.

His eyebrows met. “I am not a gardener,” he said indignantly. “I’m a cowboy.”

“You are not!”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have a horse, you’re not wearing a cowboy hat, and you don’t have on any chaps.” She glanced at his feet. “You aren’t even wearing cowboy boots!”

He gaped at her. “Did you just escape from intense therapy?”

“I have not been in any therapy,” she said haughtily. “My idiosyncrasies are so unique that they couldn’t classify me even with the latest edition of the DSM-IV, much less attempt to pyschoanalize me!”

She was referring to a classic volume of psychology that was used to diagnose those with mental challenges. He obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

“So, can you sing, then?”

He looked hunted. “Why would I want to sing?”

“Cowboys sing. I read it in a book.”

“You can read?” he asked in mock surprise.

“Why would you think I couldn’t?” she asked.

He nodded toward the sign on the hardware store’s door that clearly said, in large letters, PULL. She was trying to push it.

She let go of the door and shifted her feet. “I saw that,” she said defensively. “I just wanted to know if you were paying attention.” She cocked her head at him. “Do you have a rope?”

“Why?” he asked. “You planning to hang yourself?”

She sighed with exaggerated patience. “Cowboys carry ropes.”

“What for?”

“So they can rope cattle!”

“Don’t find many head of cattle wandering around in hardware stores,” he murmured, looking more confident now.

“What if you did?” she persisted. “How would you get a cow out of the store?”

“Bull. We run purebred Santa Gertrudis bulls on Mr. Parks’s ranch,” he corrected.

“And you don’t have any cows?” She made a face. “You don’t raise calves, then.” She nodded.

His face flamed. “We do so raise calves. We do have cows. We just don’t carry them into hardware stores and turn them loose!”

“Well, excuse me!” she said in mock apology. “I never said you did.”

“Cowboy hats and ropes and cows,” he muttered. He opened the door. “You going in or standing out here? I have work to do.”

“Doing what? Knocking unsuspecting women in the head with doors?” she asked pleasantly.

His impatient eyes went over her neat slacks and wool jacket, to the bag she was holding. “I said, are you going into the store?” he asked with forced patience, holding the door open.