Bronwyn Jameson - Zane: The Wild One

He hunkered down to where her car had slid into the ditch. “Helluva place to park,” he drawled, his tone as dry as the summer road.

That smoke-and-whiskey voice had always unsettled her—made her pulse beat a little quicker, her breath come a little shallower. A decade later, that hadn’t changed.

But some things had changed. Defined by a close-fitting T-shirt, his chest was broader, deeper, stronger. His face looked leaner, his cheekbones more sharply chiseled, and a network of well-etched lines radiated beyond his sunglasses.

Those lines deepened, as if he’d narrowed his gaze. “You okay? You look a bit stunned.”

He straightened to open her door, and she quickly looked away, but not quickly enough to avoid an eyeful of denim-encased male groin. Suddenly she felt more than stunned. She felt breathless, dizzy.

The heat, she told herself…

Dear Reader,

What could be more satisfying than the sinful yet guilt-free pleasure of enjoying six new passionate, powerful and provocative Silhouette Desire romances this month?

Get started with In Blackhawk’s Bed, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH and the latest title in the SECRETS! miniseries by Barbara McCauley. The Royal & the Runaway Bride by Kathryn Jensen—in which the heroine masquerades as a horse trainer and becomes a princess—is the seventh exciting installment in DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS, about an American family that discovers its royal roots.

A single mom melts the steely defenses of a brooding ranch hand in Cowboy’s Special Woman by Sara Orwig, while a detective with a secret falls for an innocent beauty in The Secret Millionaire by Ryanne Corey. A CEO persuades a mail-room employee to be his temporary wife in the debut novel Cinderella & the Playboy by Laura Wright, praised by New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber as “a wonderful new voice in Silhouette Desire.” And in Zane: The Wild One by Bronwyn Jameson, the mayor’s daughter turns up the heat on the small town’s bad boy made good.

So pamper the romantic in you by reading all six of these great new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

spent much of her childhood with her head buried in a book. As a teenager, she discovered romance novels, and it was only a matter of time before she turned her love of reading them into a love of writing them. Bronwyn shares an idyllic piece of the Australian farming heartland with her husband and three sons, a thousand sheep, a dozen horses, assorted wildlife and one kelpie dog. She still chooses to spend her limited downtime with a good book. Bronwyn loves to hear from readers. Write to her at bronwyn@bronwynjameson.com.

For my boys—thanks for your support, your humor,

your insight into the male psyches and the coffee.

I love you all.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

It wasn’t like in the movies.

The action didn’t cut to slow motion as her tires lost traction in the loose gravel, sending the car into a wildly slewing fishtail. The camera didn’t zoom to closeup as she wrestled for control of the wheel. There was no sense of time standing still. No sudden clarity of thought, sound, motion. No if-onlys.

One second Julia Goodwin was proceeding at her usual sensible speed, midway through the twelve-mile drive from her home in Plenty to her sister’s country property; the next she came upon a trio of magpies directly in her path. And seemingly the next second after that she was sitting there, steering wheel clutched in a death grip, going nowhere. In between there had undoubtedly been some swerving, slewing and wrestling, but not much thinking.

Finally she opened her eyes—to the sight of a kangaroo loping through the summer-dry grass that edged the unsealed road. The big grey stopped and lifted its head to scent the air.

“Now if you had been sitting on the road, big guy, I’d have had reason to take evasive action.” As the animal bounded gracefully over a fence and disappeared from sight, she shook her head in self-reproach. During countless driving lessons, many along this same road, she’d been told never to swerve for wildlife. To slow down, hit the horn and let them do their own evading.

Except Julia would never risk hurting any living thing, birds included. So she had closed her eyes, braked hard and swerved, all of which had probably contributed to her current predicament…and being stuck in this particular roadside ditch was definitely a predicament.

Because she loved the view from the top of Quilty’s Hill, she’d taken the back road to Chantal’s, and it wasn’t called “the back road” for nothing. Passing traffic was…well…there wasn’t any.

Still, it appeared she had survived the sudden stop in one piece. Shifting gingerly in her seat, she wriggled her legs, moved her neck one way and then the other. Her head didn’t fall off, and that had to be a plus. Finger by finger she unglued her hands from the wheel and, despite a bad case of the tremors, she managed to both straighten her sunglasses and release her seat belt.

It took longer to deal with the door latch and when she tried to stand, her legs collapsed from under her. Fine. The situation could be assessed as easily from ground level. In fact from this angle she could see exactly why she wasn’t going anywhere.

The car had come to rest—in the loosest sense of the phrase—on the rim of a table drain. If she had been driving her father’s Mercedes instead of her mother’s hatchback, it would have resembled a beached whale. High and dry and immovable. The gurgling and hissing coming from under the hood might indicate radiator damage, and now she looked more closely the front tire appeared flattish.

But, it could have been much worse. Julia herself had escaped uninjured. For the moment.

Heaven knows what harm would befall her when she didn’t show up for Chantal’s dinner party. Her sister hated uneven numbers, not to mention how the whole shebang had been constructed around her presence. Because Julia needed a husband. Because Julia never went anywhere to meet the “right kind of man.” Because no man or machine could stop Chantal when she was on a mission, and Mission: Marry Julia had assumed top priority since New Year’s.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Chantal’s efforts or her motivation. Purely and simply, her sister would do anything to make her happy, even if that meant acting in direct contradiction to her own beliefs. Marriage, according to Chantal, invited heartache. Career, on the other hand, provided respect, challenge and fulfillment.

Julia didn’t agree. She had been married once, and if they hadn’t followed Paul’s career to Sydney, if she hadn’t hated the isolated loneliness of big-city living—and if he hadn’t gone and fallen in love with another woman—she would likely still be married.

For better or for worse.

Because despite her parents’ lofty ambitions, despite her siblings’s stellar success, despite all the vocational testing and you-can-do-so-much-more-with-your-life advice, Julia had never wanted anything except to be married, to make a home and a garden and the babies she knew would fill the empty corners of her soul.

Unfortunately the children she had yet to have weren’t going to help her out of this fix. Fortunately her legs now felt as if they were up to supporting her, especially if she got rid of the three-inch heels borrowed from her housemate, Kree. And the stockings. And the slip that clung to her legs like seal-wrap.

That done, she made her way to the center of the road and looked around. There wasn’t a lot to see. Enough roadside eucalypts to make her grateful the drain had stopped her progress, and a century-old fence that wouldn’t have stopped a bicycle’s progress. Behind her stretched acres of rolling grassland, punctuated with the scattered dots of grazing cattle and bisected by the curling ribbon of road she had just driven down. Ahead, uncleared scrub marked the start of the Tibbaroo Nature Reserve.

Drat. She couldn’t have picked a more isolated spot. The nearest farmhouse was miles away, and already she could feel both sharp-edged gravel and the baked-in heat of a long summer day biting into her soles. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she pondered which would be perceived as the most stupid course of action. A: walking several miles in bare feet. B: walking the same distance in stilettos. Or C: waiting for help.

A low persistent buzz permeated her thoughts and she swatted at the lone fly circling her head. The fly decamped, but the buzz persisted. Julia groaned as she identified Option D as the correct answer to her question.

The most stupid course of action would be forgetting her mother’s car phone.

She picked her way back to the car, slid into the driver’s seat and rescued the squawking instrument.

“Julia? Where in heaven’s name are you?” It sounded as if Chantal had worked up a full head of steam. “I know I said seven-thirty, but you’re usually early, and I need you to fix this cursed sauce. I followed your recipe, but something’s not work—”

“Actually,” Julia managed to interject, “I’ve had an accident of sorts.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine, but the car—”

“Oh, my God, you didn’t mangle Mother’s car?”

“No, it’s not damaged. Much.” She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, although it wasn’t really a lie. “But it’s going to need towing.”

Julia gave her location, and Chantal swung straight into organizational mode. That was, after all, her forte.

“With all this food on the go, I can’t come and get you, but I’ll send Dan as soon as he gets here.”

“Dan?”

“He’s a new dentist in Cliffton. He seems a little on the quiet side, so do try to get him talking. I’m sure you’ll find plenty in common if you give him a chance.”

He’s a little dull, so you two will get along famously, Julia translated.

“Just sit tight and wait. Oh, and I’ll call a tow truck.”

“It’s Friday night. Please, don’t drag Bill out.” But she was talking to dead air. Everything organized to her satisfaction, Chantal had hung up.

With her gaze fixed on the rearview mirror, Julia saw the tow truck crest Quilty’s Hill, then zoom in and out of sight as it traversed the winding descent.

“Where’s the fire?” she murmured, sitting up straighter and pushing her dark glasses to the top of her head.

Fast wasn’t like old Bill. The laconic garage owner typified the pace of the small town that had been home for most of Julia’s life. But old Bill owned the only tow truck in Plenty, drove the only tow truck in Plenty….

Except on those rare occasions when Zane O’Sullivan was in town.

By the time the truck rocked to a halt, Julia’s heart was pounding. The pall of dust that had trailed the vehicle down the hill caught up with its quarry, circled, then settled in a thick brown shroud. Dry-mouthed, Julia heard the thunk of a closing door, the crunch of brittle herbage under heavy boots, and then he was right there, anchoring hands spread wide on the roof as he hunkered down to her open window.