Jackie Braun - The Billionaire's Bride

Forget the sexy, wind-tossed blond hair, stubble of sandy beard and well-muscled arms. What really had her mouth watering was what he held in his hand.

“Is that coffee?”

He drank deeply before replying, apparently having noted the reverence in her tone. “Yes, it is.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have more of it?”

“An entire pot. Just made it before I came out for my morning walk.” He sipped it again. “Ground the beans myself.”

She couldn’t help it. A soft moan escaped her lips. He raised his eyebrows when he heard it, but he made no comment.

“I don’t suppose you’re feeling neighborly?”

He smiled, and Marnie told herself it was only the promise of caffeine that had her pulse shooting off like a bottle rocket.

Certainly, it wasn’t the more than six feet of gorgeous man standing five yards in front of her.

Jackie Braun began making up stories even before she could write them down, but she followed her dad’s advice and earned a college degree so she could get a “day job.” She worked as a journalist for seventeen years, eleven of those years as an editorial writer at a daily newspaper, before finally quitting to make fiction her full-time career. She is a former RITA® Award and National Readers’ Choice finalist, and past winner of the Rising Star Award in traditional romance. She lives with her husband, Mark, and their son, Daniel, in Flushing, Michigan.

Recent titles by the same author

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE ®

3804—HER STAND-IN GROOM

3825—THE GAME SHOW BRIDE

3840—IN THE SHELTER OF HIS ARMS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my sisters Donna, Patty and Loraine

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARNIE STRIKER LARUE covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with one hand and hollered, “Do not put Dorothy in the fridge again, Noah.”

She couldn’t see into the kitchen, but she’d developed a sixth sense where her four-year-old son was concerned and he’d been awfully preoccupied with that goldfish lately.

Sure enough, he hollered back, “Aw, Mom.”

When Marnie saw him dash in the direction of his bedroom, she settled back onto the couch beside the mountain of unfolded laundry and, securing the receiver between her ear and shoulder, said, “So, what were you about to say, Mother?”

“I just wanted to mention that Dad saw an interesting article in the Phoenix Sun the other day about how the number of female-owned businesses is on the rise.”

Apparently her parents, who had retired to Arizona several years before, still had a sixth sense when it came to their youngest child.

This was another not so subtle reminder that Marnie’s plan to start her own business had languished for three years now. With her late husband’s enthusiastic backing, she’d plotted out a strategy for a mail-order business, a frillier version of Land’s End and L.L. Bean. At first, she’d planned to offer clothing and accessories for women like her who lived far from shopping centers and strip malls, but who still wanted to be fashionable. Later, she’d hoped to branch out into men’s and children’s clothing and then finally to include home decor.

It was to be called Marnie’s Closet, a name that had come courtesy of her sister-in-law, Rose, who still borrowed things to wear on occasion, although not as often now since Marnie hadn’t added so much as a new belt to her wardrobe in a few seasons.

The entire typed-out plan was still somewhere in Marnie’s house, gathering dust. It had been hatched PHD—Pre-Hal’s Death. That’s how Marnie thought of everything now, as if her world had been bisected neatly in two by the events of one horrific afternoon three years earlier.

“Your husband is dead.”

Those were the only words she’d heard that day. The remainder of what the kind-faced Michigan State Police officer had said had been lost to the roaring in her ears as she’d sat on the couch in her tidy little home holding tightly to her infant son while the rest of her world had slipped beyond her grasp and shattered into unsalvageable pieces.

Even now it seemed inconceivable. Dead? Not Hal. Not her careful, methodical, safety-conscious husband. It was a mistake. Had to be. Someone else’s husband had died trying to save two inebriated downstate snowmobilers who had ignored thin ice warnings and tumbled sled and all into the unforgiving waters of Lake Superior.

But then as now the truth could not be ignored. Hal was dead. The boy she had loved, the young man she had married, had become the spouse she mourned.

Since his death, she’d forgotten all about the business venture that had so excited her. She’d forgotten about everything but maintaining her tenuous financial footing and seeing to her son’s needs. Every morning for the past three years she’d gotten up tired and every night she had gone to bed bone weary, the monotony of her predictable schedule broken only by the bittersweet joy of watching her son learn to walk and talk and then run and reason.

“You know, they have a lot of programs to help women entrepreneurs succeed,” her mother said.

Marnie closed her eyes and counted to ten before replying blandly, “Really. That’s interesting.”

She was determined not to rise to the bait. But her mother was a master angler and not about to let her daughter off the hook so easily.

“It’s a shame you haven’t given it any more thought. You do a wonderful job running the Lighthouse Tavern for Mason while he’s out of town.”

Marnie’s older brother was a state legislator now. She had taken over his managerial duties at their family-owned pub when he was elected to the state House a few years back. What her mother wasn’t saying in this carefully choreographed conversation was what they all knew: Marnie found running the tavern safe and familiar.

The woman who previously had craved adventure and excitement had not strayed from the beaten path since she’d opened the door that chilly March afternoon to two grim-looking state troopers and become a single mother grappling to make ends meet.

“Why don’t you bring Noah down to see us over Easter break?” her mother suggested. “The change of scenery would do you both good.”

“It’s not a good time, Mom.”

Marnie switched the telephone receiver to her other shoulder and continued to fold laundry. It seemed like one endless, thankless chore to her. From the corner of her eye, she watched the source of much of that laundry streak by, peanut butter and jelly smeared on his shirt as well as his face. Noah was on his second outfit of the day and it wasn’t quite one o’clock.

“Nonsense. It’s the perfect time for you to come. Mason will be back in town over the holidays. The Legislature is out of session.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I really can’t afford a vacation right now.”

But her mother persisted. “Dad and I want to see our grandson. And you, too, dear. Come out to Arizona. It’s our treat.”

“I can’t let you pay our airfare.”

Indignation turned her voice crisp. She earned a living, enough to pay her bills on time if she was frugal. She had yet to touch a penny of Hal’s life insurance policy, which she’d invested for Noah, to be used to finance his college education. And she would be damned if she’d accept a handout now simply because her mother thought she needed to put her feet up.

But her indignation was short lived.

“We’re your parents, Marnie Elizabeth, so don’t you dare think of it as charity,” her mother said sternly.

The tone she used had Marnie cringing. She was thousands of miles away and yet her mother could always make Marnie feel just as she had when she was a twelve and had been caught smoking dried corn silk out behind the woodshed. She’d been grounded for two weeks—the fact that she’d turned green and thrown up apparently not punishment enough in Edith Striker’s estimation.

“We either pay your airfare to come here or we pay our airfare to come there. Same amount either way, so which will it be?”

Before she could respond, her mother threw down the trump card.

“Of course, with Dad’s arthritis, Michigan’s cold weather will be hell on his joints, but I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

Some choice.

But after hanging up, Marnie resigned herself to the visit, deciding there were worse things than having to spend time in a warm climate during the last leg of northern Michigan’s harsh winter. Besides, it would be good for Noah. He deserved a little fun and adventure now and then.

She began mentally making plans for a two-week stay at her parents’ home just outside Yuma. She’d have to get someone to pick up her mail, water the houseplants and feed Noah’s goldfish—assuming the poor thing survived until then. Glancing at the piles of folded laundry, she realized she’d also have to sort through her son’s summer clothes to see what still fit.

Maybe she could pick up a few things for him down in Arizona. Maybe she could pick up a few things for herself. Getting more in the spirit of things, she decided the trip might be good for her, an unexpected detour of sorts before she returned to her life’s monotony.

“HOLA! UM…UH…HMM.

“Donde esta…? Donde esta…? What’s the word?” she muttered. Glancing up at the clearly baffled cafe owner, she asked hopefully, “Bathroom? Um. Toileto? El johno?”

Okay, so it wasn’t actual Spanish, but Marnie really had to use the facilities and it couldn’t wait until after she’d rewound the Berlitz tape she’d listened to in the car on the trip south from Arizona and figured out the word for rest room.

Some detour, Marnie thought, as she thumbed through her Spanish/English dictionary in desperation. She hadn’t planned this side trip to Mexico, but she’d felt so crowded at her parents’ Yuma, Arizona, home. She was a grown woman of thirty-two, a mother herself to a precocious preschooler. But for four days they had hovered over her as if she were a wounded chick in need of nurturing. Finally she ‘d decided to leave Noah in their care—he would appreciate the doting, after all. She’d borrowed their car and driven south with no destination in mind.

Now, here she was a couple of hours or so beyond the United States border on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. And she really needed to relieve herself.

From behind her, she heard the deep rumble of masculine laughter. When she turned, Marnie wondered how she could have missed the man. He sat at one of the small round tables near the door, his hulking frame in silhouette thanks to the light streaming in from the window behind him. And yet she knew without clearly seeing his features that his expression was one of amusement.

At her expense.

“Do you speak English?” she demanded, squelching the urge to cross her legs and hop in place.

“Si, yo hablo ingles, muchacha,” he replied smoothly.

His pronunciation was so flawless it took her a moment to realize that while he’d said so in Spanish, he could indeed communicate with her.

She pasted on a smile—one that would have had her brother Mason wisely moving well out of her range. This man merely crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back until the front legs of his chair left the ground.