Bronwyn Jameson - Quade: The Irresistible One

“You were interested?” Chantal’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, yeah. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve replayed that first encounter. Those satin sheets sliding across the floor. You leaning over the bed. The creaking mattress.”

“So…” Her gaze drifted to his lips, and it might have been his imagination, but she seemed to drift closer, too. When he breathed, his senses swam with her scent. “Where does that leave us?”

“Do you want there to be an us?” he asked.

“Do you?” she countered.

“I don’t know,” he said, smoothing his fingers down the length of her arm before he stepped away. “Hell, I can’t even make up my mind if I like you or not.”

Dear Reader,

Get your new year off to a sizzling start by reading six passionate, powerful and provocative new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Don’t miss the exciting launch of DYNASTIES: THE BARONES, the new 12-book continuity series about feuding Italian-American families caught in a web of danger, deceit and desire. Meet Nicholas, the eldest son of Boston’s powerful Barone clan, and Gail, the down-to-earth nanny who wins his heart, in The Playboy & Plain Jane (#1483) by USA TODAY bestselling author Leanne Banks.

In Beckett’s Convenient Bride (#1484), the final story in Dixie Browning’s BECKETT’S FORTUNE miniseries, a detective offers the protection of his home—and loses his heart—to a waitress whose own home is torched after she witnesses a murder. And in The Sheikh’s Bidding (#1485) by Kristi Gold, an Arabian prince pays dearly to win back his ex-lover and their son.

Reader favorite Sara Orwig completes her STALLION PASS miniseries with The Rancher, the Baby & the Nanny (#1486), featuring a daredevil cowboy and the shy miss he hires to care for his baby niece. In Quade: The Irresistible One (#1487) by Bronwyn Jameson, sparks fly when two lawyers exchange more than arguments. And great news for all you fans of Harlequin Historicals author Charlene Sands—she’s now writing contemporary romances, as well, and debuts in Desire with The Heart of a Cowboy (#1488), a reunion romance that puts an ex-rodeo star at close quarters on a ranch with the pregnant widow he’s loved silently for years.

Ring in this new year with all six brand-new love stories from Silhouette Desire….

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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. 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 Jen, my best writing buddy—without your friendship and support and selflessness, I might never have finished this story.

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

Cameron Quade wasn’t surprised to see the sleek silver coupe parked in his driveway. Irritated, yes, resigned, yes, but not surprised. Even before he identified the status symbol badge on the car’s hood, he’d figured it belonged to his aunt or uncle, one or the other. They probably owned a matched pair.

Who else knew of his impending arrival? Who else had just cause and reason for waving the Welcome Home banner? He’d been expecting Godfrey and Gillian to show up sooner or later but he’d have preferred later. Several years later seemed around about perfect.

As the front door clicked shut behind him, Quade let the weighty luggage slide from his fingers and a weightier sigh slide from his lips. His travel-weary gaze scanned the living area of the old homestead he’d grown up in, then narrowed on a wince.

The place had been unoccupied for twelve months yet the gleam coming off every highly polished surface was damn near blinding. Someone had been busy but his aunt Gillian wielding a duster? If he could have summoned the necessary energy, he’d have laughed out loud.

As he wandered from room to room he did manage to summon a mild intrigue. The funky R & B tune piping from the stereo—a boy band?—didn’t seem like Aunt G.’s taste, although the classic gray suit jacket looped over the hall stand did. As for the flowers—he traced a finger along the rim of a hothouse orchid—yeah, the artful arrangement on said hall stand reeked of her touch.

But the woman in Quade’s bedroom, the woman in the classic gray skirt peeling back his bedclothes, was not his father’s sister.

No way, no how.

“Come on, come on, pick up the phone!”

The woman’s voice—low, smoky, impatient—drew his gaze away from the gray skirt and up to the cell phone clamped to her ear. She raked her other hand through her hair, one sweep from brow to crown that brought the thick dark mass into some sort of order. Temporary, he predicted, watching one curl bounce straight back up again.

“Julia. What were you thinking? Did I not specify guy sheets? Something practical, no frills?” She wrenched at the bedding, ripping it free from the mattress. “And you chose black satin?”

Practically hissing the last words, she flung the sheets behind her. They slithered across the highly polished floorboards to land just shy of where he stood, unnoticed, in the doorway.

“Good grief, Julia, you might as well have left a box of condoms on the pillow while you were at it!”

Quade’s brows lifted halfway up his forehead. Black satin sheets and condoms? Not the usual homecoming gift, leastways not from his aunt and uncle. And he wasn’t expecting welcome-home gifts from anyone else, especially this unknown Julia, the one copping an earful from the stranger in his bedroom.

“Call me when you get in, okay?”

Correction. Whose answer machine was copping an earful.

Equal parts amusement and bemusement curled Quade’s lips as the discarded phone skidded across a side table and bumped to a halt against the wall. Still the same blue paint he recalled from his childhood. He’d wanted fire-engine red but his mother had stood firm. Luckily.

His nostalgic smile froze half-formed when the woman leaned across his bed. Holy hell. Quade tried not to stare, but he was only human. And male. And at his lowest point of resistance, completely lacking in willpower. Ten thousand miles of travel did that to a body.

Riveted, he watched her straight skirt ride up the backs of smoothly stockinged thighs. Watched the fine gray material stretch from classic to seam-threatening across a stunning rear end.

It was the first sight to snare Quade’s total attention in those thousands of miles of travel.

Hiking her skirt higher, she slid one knee onto the mattress and stretched even farther, and he realized, belatedly, that she was remaking his bed. No, not his childhood bed but the big old double from the guest room—the antique one with the rusty springs. And as she leaned and bent and stretched and tucked, the mattress squeaked and creaked with a sound evocative of another kind of movement, a sound that stoked Quade’s warm enjoyment of the scene to hot discomfort.

Hot discomfort as inappropriate as his continued silent observation, he decided with a wake-up-to-yourself shake of his head. He stepped out of the doorway and into the room and asked the first question that came to mind. “Why are you changing the sheets?”

She whipped around in a flurry of fast-moving limbs that put her off the mattress and onto her feet in one second flat. Or, more accurately, onto one foot and one shoe in one second flat. Her other shoe had sailed free midflurry and now lay on its side, stranded halfway between the bed and the discarded sheets. She faced him with one hand splayed hard against her pink-sweatered chest, with her eyes round and startled.

Eyes, he noticed, almost as intensely dark as her hair. Both contrasted starkly with her pale complexion, although her softly rounded face was in perfect harmony with her body.

“I haven’t the foggiest who Julia is or why she’s been choosing my bed linen,” he continued softly, toeing the heap of satin out of the way as he came further into the room, “but I have nothing against her taste.”

Her gaze whipped to the phone and back again, and he knew that she knew exactly what he’d overheard, but she offered no explanation, no comment, other than an accusatory, “You’re not supposed to be here for another hour. Why are you early?”

She looked annoyed, sounded put out, and there was something about the combination that seemed oddly familiar. Quade tried to place her as he dealt with her objection. “We had a decent tailwind across the Pacific and got into Sydney ahead of schedule. Plus I’d allowed for fog over the mountains but it was surprisingly clear for August. I made good time.”

Her attention slid past him, toward the doorway. “You’re alone?”

“Should I have brought someone?”

When she didn’t reply he lifted a brow, waited.

“We didn’t know if you were bringing your fiancée,” she conceded. “We decided to play it safe.”

Hence the double bed. Hence the black satin and condoms. At least that made some sort of sense, or it would have done if he still had a fiancée to share his bed. As for the rest…

“We?” he asked.

“Julia and I. Julia is my sister. She’s been helping me out.” Or not helping, if her disgusted glare at the abandoned sheets was any indication.

Again, he felt that inkling of familiarity. Nothing solid, but… Gaze fixed on her face, he came a little closer. “Now we have Julia sorted, that leaves you.”

“You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?”

“I’m Chantal Goodwin.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to disagree.

He almost did. Hell, he almost laughed out loud in startled disbelief. While at university Chantal Goodwin had clerked in the law firm where he’d worked. Hell, he all but got her the gig but he didn’t recall ever seeing that spectacular rear end. He did, however, recall her being a spectacular pain in the rear end.

“It was a long time ago,” she said stiffly. “I dare say I’ve changed a bit.”

A bit? Now there was a classic understatement. “You had braces on your teeth.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve rounded out some.”

“Nice way of saying I’ve put on weight?”

“Nice way of saying you’ve improved with age.”

She blinked as if unsure how to deal with the compliment, and he noticed her lashes, long and dark and natural. If she wore any makeup, he couldn’t tell. And in the sudden stillness, the total silence, he realized that the music had stopped. And that a nice warm hum of interest stirred his blood.