Mary McBride - Storming Paradise

Cover Page

Praise 10 TH ANNIVERSARY Special thanks to our well-wishers, who have contributed their congratulations and support. “The best historicals, the best romances. Simply the best!” —Dallas Schulze “Bronwyn Williams was born and raised at Harlequin Historicals. We couldn’t have asked for a better home or a more supportive family.” —Dixie Browning and Mary Williams, w/a Bronwyn Williams “I can’t believe it’s been ten years since Private Treaty, my first historical novel, helped launch the Harlequin Historicals line. What a thrill that was! And the beat goes on…with timeless stories about men and women in love.” —Kathleen Eagle “Nothing satisfies me as much as writing or reading a Harlequin Historical novel. For me, Harlequin Historicals are the ultimate escape from the problems of everyday life.” —Ruth Ryan Langan “As a writer and reader, I feel that the Harlequin Historicals line always celebrates a perfect blend of history and romance, adventure and passion, humor and sheer magic.” —Theresa Michaels “Thank you, Harlequin Historicals, for opening up a ‘window into the past’ for so many happy readers.” —Suzanne Barclay “As a one-time ‘slush pile’ foundling at Harlequin Historicals, I’ll be forever grateful for having been rescued and published as one of the first ‘March Madness’ authors. Harlequin Historicals has always been the place for special stories, ones that blend the magic of the past with the rare miracle of love for books that readers never forget” —Miranda Jarrett “A rainy evening. A cup of hot chocolate. A stack of Harlequin Historicals. Absolute bliss! Happy 10th Anniversary and continued success.” —Cheryl Reavis “Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.” —Elaine Barbieri “Harlequin Historical novels are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!” —Karen Harper

Title Page Storming Paradise Mary McBride www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication For Cynthia MacDonald Gamblin, my gold friend

Excerpt “We were discussing your dismissal, I believe,” Libby said. “All right.” Shad crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead.” “I want you to leave.” “You already said that.” Libby crossed her arms now. “Well?” “Well what?” “Go.” She angled her head toward the door. Once he was gone, she thought, she’d be able to breathe normally. However did he manage to suck up all the air in a room, leaving only scraps for everybody else to breathe? But he wasn’t going. He seemed stuck to that backward chair as if he were glued to it by the seat of his pants. The pants—she couldn’t help but notice—that were pulled so taut across his thighs. She could actually see the power in those hard curves, could almost feel…Her eyes snapped back to his face, only to discover the most irritating grin she’d ever seen. “You’ve got a lot to learn about firing, Miss Libby…”

Prologue

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

About the Author

Copyright

“The best historicals, the best romances. Simply the best!”

—Dallas Schulze

“Bronwyn Williams was born and raised at Harlequin Historicals. We couldn’t have asked for a better home or a more supportive family.”

—Dixie Browning and Mary Williams, w/a Bronwyn Williams

“I can’t believe it’s been ten years since Private Treaty, my first historical novel, helped launch the Harlequin Historicals line. What a thrill that was! And the beat goes on…with timeless stories about men and women in love.”

—Kathleen Eagle

“Nothing satisfies me as much as writing or reading a Harlequin Historical novel. For me, Harlequin Historicals are the ultimate escape from the problems of everyday life.”

—Ruth Ryan Langan

“As a writer and reader, I feel that the Harlequin Historicals line always celebrates a perfect blend of history and romance, adventure and passion, humor and sheer magic.”

—Theresa Michaels

“Thank you, Harlequin Historicals, for opening up a ‘window into the past’ for so many happy readers.”

—Suzanne Barclay

“As a one-time ‘slush pile’ foundling at Harlequin Historicals, I’ll be forever grateful for having been rescued and published as one of the first ‘March Madness’ authors. Harlequin Historicals has always been the place for special stories, ones that blend the magic of the past with the rare miracle of love for books that readers never forget”

—Miranda Jarrett

“A rainy evening. A cup of hot chocolate. A stack of Harlequin Historicals. Absolute bliss! Happy 10th Anniversary and continued success.”

—Cheryl Reavis

“Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.”

—Elaine Barbieri

“Harlequin Historical novels are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!”

—Karen Harper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Cynthia MacDonald Gamblin, my gold friend

Libby said.

“All right.” Shad crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead.”

“I want you to leave.”

“You already said that.”

Libby crossed her arms now. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Go.” She angled her head toward the door. Once he was gone, she thought, she’d be able to breathe normally. However did he manage to suck up all the air in a room, leaving only scraps for everybody else to breathe?

But he wasn’t going. He seemed stuck to that backward chair as if he were glued to it by the seat of his pants. The pants—she couldn’t help but notice—that were pulled so taut across his thighs. She could actually see the power in those hard curves, could almost feel…Her eyes snapped back to his face, only to discover the most irritating grin she’d ever seen.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about firing, Miss Libby…”

Dear Daughters, Amos Kingsland wrote.

And then, because he was a blunt man, never known to hold his temper or his tongue, he continued. I’m dying.

As if to underscore the words he wrote, pain shot through his belly just then. Amos closed his eyes. The doctors in Corpus Christi wanted to slice him open and poke around inside, but he’d told them to ply their lily-fingered trade on somebody else. He’d already been cut twice—once by a blind-drunk Cajun in New Orleans, and once—worse—by a woman in Matamoros who didn’t like the word adios. Any more scars, he figured, and Saint Peter wouldn’t recognize him when he knocked on the pearly gates. Or Lucifer, when he pounded on the blazing portals of perdition.