Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  Brooding, he watched Claire lift the silver basket and turn it in her hands. “This is gorgeous. But it’s dented.”

  “In two places,” Alexandra agreed. “Peggy’s hard head left quite a mark.”

  “I can fix it,” Claire offered, having taken up an old family pastime of making jewelry.

  Alexandra smiled. “I think not. I like it just the way it is.”

  Apparently still mulling over the tale, Corinna reached for another of the chocolate puffs Alexandra had brought. “So Peggy offered to make that list in order to control who was on it?”

  “Exactly,” Alexandra said. “There were others who knew Maude was alive, even if they didn’t know Peggy was her daughter.”

  “And Tristan hadn’t done any of those things while sleepwalking,” Elizabeth said, her green eyes wide.

  “Of course he hadn’t.” Alexandra scooted closer to her husband and leaned dreamily back against him. “I knew he hadn’t all along.”

  “Have you sleepwalked since then?” Juliana asked him.

  “Not once,” Tristan said.

  “And I’m sure he won’t ever again,” Alexandra declared.

  “I wouldn’t wager on that,” her husband disagreed wryly, tilting her face up and back for a quick upside-down kiss. “Something tells me this irredeemable chit is likely to cause more tension sometime in the future.”

  Everyone laughed. Except for Griffin. He was glad to see his sister happy, but that didn’t alleviate his misgivings.

  Alexandra frowned at his clenched jaw. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “You should have come home,” he gritted out. “When all that was happening, you should have come home.”

  “That’s what Peggy wanted, but Hawkridge is my home now.” She exchanged a glance with Tristan, apparently realizing Griffin was as disappointed with his friend for not making her come home as he was with her for not doing so on her own. Extricating herself from Tristan’s embrace, she rose to her feet. “Let’s walk,” she said to Griffin, taking his arm to pull him up before he could protest.

  “I could have lost you,” he said as they headed down the rise to the vineyard.

  “Have you not figured out yet that you’re never going to lose any of us, Griffin? Not even after we’re all married and gone from Cainewood. You’re stuck worrying about us forever,” she said all too truthfully and cheerfully.

  They walked for a few minutes, sharing a healing, companionable silence that went beyond words. When they reached the vineyard, they headed into the middle of it, toward where Rachael wandered in the distance.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Alexandra asked.

  “I don’t know. Would you care to ask her?”

  “I’ll let you ask her.”

  “Hmmph.”

  She bent to touch a minuscule grape. “Your vines are bearing fruit!”

  A ridiculous sense of pride washed over him. “Nothing worthy of wine yet, but it’s something to celebrate.”

  “We’ll toast your success with Hawkridge’s wine in a few minutes.” She wandered the row, still heading toward Rachael. “Are they English sweet-water grapes?”

  “They’re Rhenish.” A few months ago he wouldn’t have known the variety, but the vineyard truly felt like his now. “Since when do you know anything about grapes?”

  “I have a vineyard now, too, you know. It’s my responsibility to learn everything about Hawkridge.”

  His sister always had been rather responsible. But she was changing, Griffin thought. He couldn’t put his finger on how, but he knew it was for the better.

  “You should have come home,” he repeated doggedly, “but I must thank you for persevering. Because of you, Juliana and Corinna have bright futures.”

  “Thank you for allowing me to marry Tris,” she returned, then shot him a grin that was much more impish than the old Alexandra. “And for the excellent advice you gave me the night before my wedding.”

  He felt his face heat and suspected he was as red as the blanket on the hill. “I think I shall talk to Rachael now,” he said and walked off.

  Rachael turned as he approached, her cerulean eyes laced with unmistakable pain. “Leave me alone,” she said miserably. “I came out here to be alone.”

  “My sister sent me to talk to you.”

  “Do you always listen to your sisters?”

  “Only when I agree with what they say.” He stepped closer and trailed a fingertip down her wan face. “Tell me, Rachael. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, hell,” she said, then pressed herself into his shirtfront and sobbed.

  He patted her awkwardly, feeling her hot tears wet through to his skin. Even miserable, she felt entirely too good in his arms. He sent a murderous glance back toward Alexandra before patting Rachael some more. “Whatever it is,” he said soothingly—at least, he hoped it sounded soothing—“it cannot be that bad.”

  “I’m not a Chase,” she whispered through a sob.

  “What?” His hands froze on her slim back. “How can that be?”

  “I found a letter.” She pulled away, not looking quite so beautiful as she swiped at her reddened eyes. “This morning, when I was clearing out the master suite for Noah’s homecoming. It was from my mother to my father. From before I was born.”

  He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, and she took it and blew her nose. Noisily and not prettily.

  Good, he thought. She was getting less sultry and tempting by the minute. “What did the letter say?”

  “It said…it said she would always be grateful to him for wedding her even though she was a widow already with child. She prayed I would be a girl so he wouldn’t be stuck with another man’s son as his heir. She—”

  “Did she say she loved him?” he interrupted pointedly.

  She nodded. “But—”

  “They were in love, Rachael. Anyone could see it just looking at the two of them. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

  She shrugged, following that with a long, sorrowful sniff. “But he wasn’t my father. Whoever my real father was, he wasn’t a Chase.”

  “Did the man who raised you ever, for one minute, treat you as anything but his daughter?”

  “No.” The tears continued to flow as she shook her head. “But I’m not a Chase. I don’t know what I am if I’m not a Chase.”

  “You’re Rachael,” he said. “Noah and Claire and Elizabeth are still your brother and sisters. You still live at Greystone. Nothing has changed. What’s in a name? It will change when you marry, anyway.”

  But her family name wouldn’t change if she married him. And he was aware, quite suddenly and uncomfortably, that the cousin standing before him wasn’t actually his cousin.

  Thankfully, she hadn’t seemed to make that connection. “You’re right,” she said, straightening her shoulders and taking a big breath.

  She didn’t look like she really believed him, but she looked like she wanted to believe him. And the shaky little smile she aimed at him had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with family comforting each other.

  “Thank you,” she added. “I don’t know when you became so reasonable, but I do appreciate your calm, considered approach.”

  If only she knew. He hadn’t been calm and considered since inheriting the marquessate. All in all, he’d felt calmer on campaign with the enemy bearing down.

  Panicked would describe his current state better.

  He had two more sisters to marry off, an estate that came with entirely too much responsibility, and now a cousin who wasn’t his cousin.

  And since she’d stopped crying, she was looking sultry again, damn it. Those huge, amazing eyes would bring any man to his knees.

  In fact, his knees seemed to be aching right now. “I am glad I could help,” he said stiffly.

  His voice wasn’t the only thing that was stiff.

  “I think…” she said, licking her lips, “I think I’m ready to go back to the others.”

  “Thank God,” he
said under his breath.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m thankful to God that you feel much better.”

  She cocked her head at him, no doubt remembering he’d never been a man given to prayer, his frequent use of the Lord’s name notwithstanding. But she followed him back down the row, and for that he was thankful, too. Mostly because she was behind him, which meant he didn’t have to watch her swaying derrière.

  It was a good thing she’d said she’d never marry him, because the last thing he needed was a wife.

  -The End—

  If you’d like to learn more about the real places and events in Lost in Temptation, read Lauren’s Author’s Note here.

  For alerts on upcoming books, along with monthly special offers, sign up for Lauren Royal’s Newsletter.

  Read the stories of Alexandra’s sisters Juliana and Corinna in the rest of the Temptations Trilogy: Tempting Juliana and The Art of Temptation

  KISS THE COOK

  *

  By Jacquie D’Alessandro

  CHAPTER ONE

  *

  MELANIE GIBSON EASED her beat-up, rusted-out lime-green Dodge into the circular drive of the soaring office building at One Atlanta Plaza. Exhaustion pulled at her every muscle. “Thank God this is my last delivery for the night,” she muttered, praying she’d find an open parking space. She craned her neck, peered around, and sighed. A solid row of cars lined both sides of the wide driveway.

  She looked at her watch. Ten past seven. If she didn’t deliver the order of food in the next five minutes, the customer wouldn’t have to pay for it. That was the guarantee of the Pampered Palate—Gourmet Food To Go.

  “If we don’t deliver on time, it’s on us,” Melanie grumbled. “Since I was clearly insane when I came up with that slogan, I’m making an executive decision to change it tomorrow to, ‘You’ll get your food when you get it, and be damn glad about it.’ “

  She glanced at the large warming container of food in the backseat and made another executive decision: If she pulled around to the back of the building and parked in the lot, she’d never make it in time. Almost three hundred dollars’ worth of food. She could not afford to be late. She pulled up alongside a dark blue Mercedes and double-parked.

  “I’ll only be upstairs for a few minutes,” she rationalized under her breath, hauling the heavy red-and-white-striped warmer into her arms. Besides, whoever owned the Benz would be working ‘til midnight to afford their car payment.

  She slammed the car door with a thrust of her hip then awkwardly maneuvered herself and her ungainly package through the revolving door. She’d certainly be glad when she got her bank loan and could buy her catering truck. Then she could use the special delivery entrances and forgo this double-parking/revolving door ordeal.

  When she entered the lobby, a blast of air-conditioning greeted her and she almost groaned with pleasure. Atlanta was into the second week of a record-breaking July heat wave and the Dodge’s air-conditioning consisted of rolled-down windows.

  After scribbling her name on the security roster, she rushed into an open elevator car and pushed the button for the thirtieth floor. No way was she going to be late. No way. The elevator zoomed upward, then opened with a quiet ping. “Whew! Made it!”

  She hurried down the hall to the double glass doors leading to Slickert, Cashman, and Rich, Attorneys at Law. Great name for a bunch of lawyers. Kinda like the way her gynecologist’s name was Dr. Seamen.

  After setting the heavy container on the floor, she raised her hand to ring the bell. And froze. She stared through the glass with disbelief. Her stomach fell to her toes.

  The digital clock on the reception desk glowed in the deserted waiting area. It read 7:40.

  She looked at her watch. It still read 7:10.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” She shook her wrist and held the timepiece up to her ear. Nothing. Zip. Nada. She slapped the watch’s face. No signs of life. Like the Wicked Witch of the East, her watch was not merely dead, it was really most sincerely dead.

  But how could that be? She’d just bought the blasted thing last month— a twenty-eighth birthday present to herself. Sure she’d only invested twelve bucks in the timepiece, but still. Surely it should work for more than a month. The stupid thing had just cost her three hundred dollars in food. Three hundred dollars she couldn’t afford to lose.

  She glanced down at the box at her feet and suppressed an urge to kick it. Fifteen gourmet dinners, all the condiments, plates, cutlery. Everything for a Pampered Palate meal. And now the meal would be on her.

  Great. Well, no way around it. She was late and that was that. She toyed with the idea of trying to talk her way out of it, but quickly dismissed the notion. If she didn’t live up to her promises, her fledgling business would suffer. She’d worked too hard and too long to risk her reputation with one of her best customers. Besides, a ravenous Cashman or a starving Slickert might slap her with a lawsuit if she reneged on her slogan. Stupid slogan. She was definitely changing it tomorrow.

  But that didn’t help her now. Nana always said the only way to swallow a bitter pill was to do it quickly and get it over with, so Melanie took a deep breath and rang the bell. She tapped her foot, waiting, mentally cursing Mike, her delivery man. Of course it wasn’t Mike’s fault he was sick, but having to make this batch of deliveries herself had turned a bad day into the day from hell.

  The day had started when her alarm didn’t go off and she woke up forty-five minutes late. Then there was no hot water for her shower. In her haste, she got shampoo in her eye, burned her fingers removing her bagel from the toaster, and stubbed her toe rushing out the door. And in spite of all that rushing around, she’d still been thirty minutes late to work.

  And speaking of late, where were these people? She rang the bell again and knocked on the glass door for good measure. Another minute went by with no response. Another round of ringing and knocking brought no response.

  Great. They’d probably given up on her and gone home. A weary sigh escaped her. Now what? She wasn’t about to leave the food here in the hall. Clearly everyone had left. Weird. Maybe some sort of court emergency had occurred. What she knew about the workings of a law office could fit on a poppy seed.

  Hefting the heavy warmer into her arms, she struggled back to the bank of elevators then set down her unwieldy load. “I’ll go down to the lobby and call the lawyers just to make sure they’re not holed up in some back conference room,” she muttered, “If they don’t answer, I’m outta here.” She could have saved herself the trip if she’d had her cell phone with her, but it was right where she’d left it—on the passenger seat of the Dodge.

  “Probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” she said with a sigh, “since the battery was about to die. But that’s no surprise. That’s just the sort of day it’s been.” Yup. And now she was talking to herself. Next stop— the loony bin. The elevator door opened and she shoved the box inside with her foot. When she stepped in after it, her heel got caught in the narrow space between the doors. She gave her stuck foot a heave and the heel snapped off cleanly.

  “Seriously?” With a grunt of disgust she yanked the broken heel from the crack then limped onto the elevator and jabbed the L button. After slipping off her broken shoe, she sagged against the wall, closed her eyes, and wondered what she’d done to bring the wrath of God down on her head. Must be her tendency to speed in the Dodge, she decided. Or maybe the fact that she’d kicked Tony Pasqualio’s shin in the third grade had finally come back to haunt her.

  But couldn’t those evils be canceled out by some good stuff? She loved animals and kids, and she always held the door open for strangers. She looked down at her bare toes, groaned, and squeezed her eyes back shut.Apparently third-grade shin-kicking carried more weight with higher beings than holding doors open.

  The elevator stopped. Melanie peeked her weary eyes open a crack. Twenty-fifth floor. Great. Of course someone would be getting on to see her in all her broken-shoe/ one bare foot glory. Sh
e caught a glimpse of masculine tassel loafers stepping into the car. By the time she opened her eyes all the way, the man had turned his back to her and re-pushed the L button.

  Her eyes drifted shut, traveling down the man’s back as they did so. Tall. Charcoal gray suit jacket flung over one arm, burgundy leather briefcase. White dress shirt fitted across broad shoulders. Her gaze dipped lower. Pants that matched the jacket. Nice butt. She inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of spicy-clean cologne. Whoever he was, he smelled great. A lot better than she did. She smelled like fried chicken and Caesar salad. Her eyes settled again on his backside. Yes, indeed, he had a really great butt.

  *

  CHRISTOPHER BISHOP STEPPED into the elevator, barely noting the fact that another person was in the car, and pushed l with a sigh of relief. He was tired. Bone weary. He glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five. Another fourteen-hour workday. He rolled his aching shoulders and sighed. Since he’d made partner at his accounting firm, his workload had become murderous. He couldn’t wait to get home, ditch the suit and tie, get into his sweats, grab a beer, and relax. And food. Yeah, something to eat would be really nice. The half a sandwich he’d managed to grab for lunch between meetings was loooong gone.

  While he watched the lit numbers drop, he became aware of an aroma… a mouthwatering, drool-inducing aroma in the elevator. Fried chicken.

  His nostrils twitched and his stomach let loose a ferocious growl.

  He turned his head and noted the woman leaning against the back wall. Her eyes were closed and she looked about ready to drop. His gaze traveled over her, noting her disheveled reddish-brown hair, wrinkled white man-tailored blouse, short black skirt, and… one shoe? She stood lopsided, but she had great legs. Really great legs. The words pampered palate were embroidered on the pocket of her shirt and printed in red block letters on the sides of the large box that sat at her feet. He’d obviously found the source of the tantalizing aroma.

  Pampered Palate. Now why did that sound so familiar? He’d probably ordered an eat-it-at-your-desk lunch from them. A frown scrunched his brow. No, it was something else. He searched his mind, but his exhausted brain cells refused to function. It would come to him eventually.