Emily McKay - All He Ever Wanted

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He did another one of those slow, lingering perusals of her face and her cheeks burned under his gaze. “Maybe you should be.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she should be afraid. But she wasn’t. She straightened her spine and the action closed some of the distance between them, bringing her breasts to within a micrometer of his chest.

“Maybe,” she said. “But none of the Cains have power over me anymore. I’ve made sure of that.”

Of course, that was a bald-faced lie, because if he found out the truth, then he most certainly would have power over her. A lot of it.

Dear Reader,

Usually I use this space to talk about the book you’re about to read, but today I wanted to talk about something else. The people who help make my books possible—my editors.

I’ve written seventeen books so far. In that time I’ve worked with eight editors, all of whom have their own strengths and all of whom have made me a better writer. Brenda Chin bought my first book, a Temptation. She taught me so much about how to tighten a story and layer in conflict and emotion. MJ, the editor who brought me from Temptation to Desire™, eased that transition for me. She taught me how to write the big emotional, high drama stories of the Mills & Boon ®Desire™ line. Stacy Abrams (my editor at Walker Books) helped me refine my language and tighten up the relationships between characters. And then, there’s Charles, my current editor for Desire, who is perhaps the most fun to work with. Perhaps that’s because I’ve always felt like he really got me as a writer. Plus, he is the most fun at conferences, which makes me the envy of all my writer friends.

All of my editors have worked so hard to make my books better. I cannot imagine my life as a writer without them. Editing is so much more than merely tweaking language. Editors bring an impersonal eye to the story. They point out inconsistencies in character and story that a writer is simply too close to the story to see. They find the things we miss. They see what we cannot.

For all the editors I have worked with, as well as all the other behind-the-scenes folks, thank you!

Emily McKay

EMILY MCKAYhas been reading romance novels since she was eleven years old. Her first romance book came free in a box of Hefty garbage bags. She has been reading and loving romance novels ever since. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine , was a RITA ®Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.EmilyMcKay.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Brenda, Tanya, MJ, Diana, Krista, Stacy, Michelle,

and—perhaps most important!—Charles.

None of my books would be possible without you!

By all appearances, Hollister Cain—at sixty-seven years old and recovering from his third massive heart attack—was an inch from death, but it was an inch he clung to with the same ferocity with which he’d ruled the Cain empire for the past forty-four years.

It wasn’t love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons—two legitimate, one bastard—and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them.

Six weeks before, when his health had taken such a drastic turn for the worse, the first-floor study of his house in the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood of Houston had been converted into a state-of-the-art hospital room. Hollister’s ornately carved mahogany desk had been removed, along with the leather wingback chairs and the Edwardian demilune bar.

Undaunted by three heart attacks, double bypass surgery and a failing liver, he still felt a long-term stay in the hospital was beneath him. The arrogant fool.

Though Dalton let himself into the room as silently as he could, Hollister’s eyes flickered open. He released a slow, rasping breath. “You’re late.”

“Of course I am. I was at a board meeting.”

His father would have known this since Cain Enterprises’ board of directors had met every Monday morning at eight for over twenty years. Sometimes it seemed Hollister delighted in forcing Dalton to choose between familial obligations and the company, as if Dalton needed reminding that running Cain Enterprises was a life-consuming endeavor.

Hollister gave a slight but satisfied nod, confirming what Dalton’s gut had already told him. His father was still testing him to make sure his first and only loyalty lay with the company.

“Very well.” Hollister reached for the bed’s controller with a frail, trembling hand. He seemed barely strong enough to press the button to raise the head of the bed.

The bed itself moved slowly, as if echoing Hollister’s strain, and in the moments it took for Hollister to adjust it, Dalton scanned the room again. His mother sat on the chair immediately at his father’s side, her posture stiff, even for her. Griffin Cain, Dalton’s youngest brother, stood just behind their mother, looking understandably tired since he’s just flown in from Scotland the day before. On Hollister’s other side stood Portia, Dalton’s ex-wife, seemingly more at home within the family than Dalton himself had ever felt. Portia was one of the few people both Hollister and Caro liked, which was why she was still a fixture in their lives so long after the divorce. And finally, off in the corner, gazing out the window, as far removed as ever, was Cooper Larsen, Hollister’s illegitimate son.

Cooper did not even glance in Dalton’s direction—or Hollister’s for that matter—but rather lounged negligently against the window’s frame, his expression bored, his attention elsewhere. Cooper’s disinterest didn’t surprise Dalton nearly as much as his actual presence did. Cooper had drifted around the edges of their family for years. For Hollister to have summoned him—and for him to have actually answered the call—the situation must be dire indeed.

By the time the head of the bed was raised, the heart monitor on the medical cart was beeping in a quick rhythm, as if the effort had strained Hollister, but the man’s gaze remained steady and unwavering. He reached for something on the table beside his bed. Caro Cain snapped to attention and offered up the insulated mug of ice water, carefully positioning the straw toward her husband’s mouth, but Hollister swatted it away impatiently. Instead, he grabbed the item that had been resting behind the water, an innocuous white envelope. His fingers fumbled for a minute, as if he might withdraw the contents himself. When they proved too unsteady, he thrust it toward his wife.

“Read it,” he barked, the order no less direct for the frailty of his voice.

Caro frowned as if momentarily confused by this turn of events, but then she pulled out the contents of the envelope and unfolded a single typed page. The paper was thin enough that Dalton could see the shadow of the printed words through the back of it.