Cathy Thacker - The Heiress

“Am I getting to you?” Daisy asked.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Perspiration beaded his temple. “This won’t help your situation.”

Daisy laughed softly. When he didn’t move—didn’t react in any way—she recklessly reached behind her and released the zipper on her sundress.

Jack’s expression grew even grimmer, more forbidding. Although she could tell he wanted her, he was not in the least bit amused by her antics. “Don’t do this,” Jack whispered. His fingers gently encircled her wrist, forcing her hand down. “It wouldn’t help either of us,” he said sternly.

More tired than she could ever say of being told what to do, think, even feel, Daisy replied, “We’ll just see about that.” And before Jack Granger could respond, she stood on tiptoe, wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck, tilted his head down and pressed her lips to his….

Dear Reader,

Have you ever felt that you just didn’t belong somewhere? Or that everyone knew what was really going on behind the scenes but you? Heiress Daisy Templeton has felt that way her entire life. Her intuition tells her there are secrets that have something to do with her adoption into the blue-blooded Templeton clan, and she is determined to discover the truth about her heritage. When she does, it rocks her world. She is a true heir to the Deveraux legacy. Her real mother and real father have been in her life all along!

Jack Granger, on the other hand, knows more than he cares to about his sordid past and wishes fervently he were a member of a family like the Deveraux. That isn’t possible, until he’s given the assignment by his boss Tom Deveraux to keep the beautiful and spirited Daisy safe. A job that soon becomes a lot more personal for Jack.

Daisy doesn’t want Jack around or cleaning up Tom’s mess. But soon their lives are entangled more deeply and irrevocably than they ever could have imagined.

I hope you enjoy this book and the rest of THE DEVERAUX LEGACY as much as I have enjoyed writing all six books. And don’t forget to look for Taking Over the Tycoon, coming in June 2003 from Harlequin American Romance.

Happy reading!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cathy Gillen Thacker has published over sixty books, more than fifty with Harlequin American Romance. And with good reason! The family dramas and romantic comedies are very close to her heart. Her books have made numerous appearances on bestseller lists and are published in seventeen languages and thirty-five countries around the world. She lives in North Carolina with her family.

To my darling daughter Sarah—

who understands the “creative process”/art of

storytelling like only another former English lit

major/Web site designer/law student can. Thanks for

listening, kiddo. (A lot!) This one is for 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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

WE HAVE TO STOP MEETING like this, Daisy Templeton thought.

Not that she and Jack Granger were really socializing. Just that, for the last month or so, the two of them had been showing up at the same locations in Charleston, South Carolina, at the same time with disturbing regularity. Sometimes, the handsome attorney said hello and engaged her in the kind of brief chitchat one had with an acquaintance. On other occasions—like tonight—the sexy bachelor kept his distance, remaining clear on the other side of the airport baggage claim.

Daisy knew Jack Granger hadn’t been on her return flight from Switzerland in any case. The tall sandy-haired southerner with the nicely chiseled jaw would have been impossible to miss. But, as company counsel, he certainly could have been somewhere for Deveraux-Heyward Shipping. He was dressed in a dark-blue pin-striped business suit, white shirt, tie. As always, his clothes were sharp, if a little worn.

He had been standing there, arms crossed, leaning up against the far wall, when Daisy walked through the security gate that separated arrivals and departures from the rest of the Charleston, South Carolina, airport. Dark aviator sunglasses on, a cell phone pressed to his ear, he appeared to be waiting for someone or something. But unlike everyone else—Daisy included—who was gathered around the motionless baggage claim, waiting impatiently for their luggage, Jack Granger didn’t seem to care whether the ear-splitting warning buzzer ever sounded. He appeared more interested in whatever was being said to him on the other end of the line.

Not that it should matter to her what Jack Granger was doing, Daisy reminded herself as the red light flashed and the conveyer belt finally began to move. Others crowded in. She wedged her way in once she saw her case, grabbed it by the handle, lifted it off the conveyor belt, pulled up the handle, then wheeled it toward the automatic doors.

The August heat was intense, the South Carolina air was warm, moist and scented with saltwater. Grateful to be back home, even if she wasn’t happy about what she had to do next, Daisy headed quickly for the long-term parking lot, and the car she had purchased six weeks ago after she had been disinherited. Her adopted parents hated the beat-up red sedan with the dented fender, yellowing hood and two pine-green doors, but for Daisy, the reconditioned, decade-old vehicle was a crowning symbol of her achievement. She had paid for the car in cash, using money she had earned as a professional photographer. And it had facilitated her during her search for the truth about her heritage. Now that she was back in the States again, she was going to take herself to confront her biological mother and father.

Eight o’clock, the traffic was light as she headed for the downtown Historic District of elegant homes, to the Hayes residence, where Daisy’s older sister, Iris, resided. The stately lemon-colored three-story home, with the black shutters, double wraparound verandas and mansard roof, was one of the larger homes on Concord Street, opposite Waterfront Park.

Her heart pounding with a mixture of anger and anticipation of the blowup to come, Daisy slammed out of her car, the red accordion file filled with proof in one hand, her fringed buckskin carryall slung over her shoulder, and marched up the steps. Iris’s maid, Consuela, answered the door, and ushered Daisy to the antique-filled morning room, where her much older “sister” was seated.

Iris had on a sleeveless pale-blue summer sweater and slim white skirt, high-heeled shoes that made the most of her slender, elegant, forty-seven-year-old form. A cardigan had been tied neatly across her shoulders. A strand of pearls and matching earrings were the only accessories aside from the heavy diamond wedding and engagement rings Iris still wore, a year after she had been widowed by one of the city’s wealthiest—and in Daisy’s opinion, most repulsive—men. Copies of Vogue and Town and Country magazine were spread across her lap. Mozart was playing on the stereo.