Rancher's Wild Secret. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You left the party?”
“Everything was well in hand. I left Cricket in charge.”
That might be a stretch. But while she was as honest with her father as possible, she tended to leave out some things like…her feelings. And this would be one of those times.
“I met him briefly, then I went back to the house. That’s all. He told me he worked on the property.”
“You have to be careful,” her father said. “You don’t want any photographs taken of you alone with a man who’s not Donovan. You don’t need anything to compromise your engagement.”
Sometimes she wondered if her father realized they didn’t live in the Victorian era.
“Nothing is going to compromise my engagement to Donovan.”
“I’m glad you’re certain about it.”
She was, in spite of her occasional doubts. Her father might not understand that times had changed, but she did. She felt certain Donovan was carrying on with other women in the absence of a physical relationship with her. Why would she assume anything else? He was a man, after all.
She knew why her father was so invested in her marriage to Donovan. As part of his planned retirement, her father was giving ownership stakes in the winery to each of his daughters’ husbands.
He felt Donovan would be an asset to the winery, and Emerson agreed. But she wasn’t sure how that fit into a marriage.
Clearly, Donovan didn’t much care about how that fit into a marriage either.
And she doubted he would be able to muster up any jealousy over her behavior.
“Image,” her father said, bringing her back to the moment. “It isn’t what you do that matters, Emerson, it’s what the world thinks you’re doing.”
There was something about the way her father said it, so smooth and cold, that made her feel chilled. It shouldn’t chill her, because she agreed that image was important in their business.
Still, it did chill her.
Emerson shifted. “Right. Well, no worries there. Image is my expertise.”
“It’s all about the brand,” he said.
“I tell you that,” she said.
“And you’ve done it well.”
“Thank you,” she said, nearly flushed with pleasure. Compliments from James Maxfield were rare, and she clung to them when she got them.
“You should head down to the stables. He’ll be waiting for you.”
And if that made her stomach tighten, she ignored the sensation. She had a job to do. And that job had nothing to do with how tall the new ranch manager was.
She was as pretty in the ridiculously trendy outfit she was wearing now as she’d been in that red dress.
She was wearing high-cut black pants that went up past her belly button, loose fitted through the leg, with a cuff around the ankle, paired with a matching black top that was cropped to just beneath her breasts and showed a wedge of stomach. Her dark hair was in a high bun, and she was wearing the same red lipstick she’d had on the night before, along with round sunglasses that covered her eyes.
He wished he could see her eyes. And as she approached, she pushed the glasses up to the top of her head.
He hadn’t been prepared for how beautiful she was.
He thought he’d seen her beauty in the moonlight, thought he’d seen it in photographs, but they didn’t do her justice. He’d been convinced that the blue of her eyes was accomplished with some kind of a filter. But it was clear to him now, out in the bright sun with the green mountains surrounding them, and her eyes reflecting that particular blue from the center of the sky, that if anything, her eyes had been downplayed in those photographs.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning to you too. I take it you spoke with your father?”
It took all of his self-control for that word to come out smoothly.
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
“And what do you think of his proposition?”
In Holden’s opinion, it was a good one. And when he was through ruining James and sinking his brand, Holden might well buy the entire property and continue making wine himself. He was good at selling things, making money. He could make more money here.
“It’s good. I think a few well-placed selfies will drum up interest.”
“You’re probably right. Though, I can’t say I’m real up on selfies.”
That was a lie. His younger sister was a pretty powerful influencer. A model, who had met James Maxfield at one of the parties that had brought their type together. He was angry at himself for the part his own money had played in all of this.
Because Soraya had been innocent. A sweet girl from a small town who had been catapulted into a lifestyle she hadn’t been prepared to handle.
Holden could relate well enough.
He certainly hadn’t known how to handle money in the beginning.
But he’d been helping his family dig out of the hole they’d found themselves in. The first thing he’d done was buy his mother a house. Up on a hill, fancy and safe from the men who had used her all throughout Holden’s childhood.
And his sweet, younger half sister… She’d tumbled headfirst into fame. She was beautiful, that much had always been apparent, but she had that lean, hungry kind of beauty, honed by years of poverty, her backstory lending even more interest to her sharp cheekbones and unerring sense of style.
She had millions of people following her, waiting to see her next picture. Waiting to see which party she would attend.
And she attended the wrong one when she met James Maxfield.
He’d pounced on her before Holden could say “daddy issues.” And James had left her devastated. Holden would never forget having to admit his sister for a psychiatric hold. Soraya’s suicide attempt, the miscarriage… The devastation.
It was burned in him.
Along with the reality that his money hadn’t protected her. His money had opened her up to this.
Now all that was left was revenge, because he couldn’t make it right. He couldn’t take her pain away.
But he could take everything away from the Maxfield family.
And that was what he intended to do.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” she said. She stuck her hand out—the one that didn’t have the ring on it. That one angled at her side, the gem sparkling in the sunlight. “I’m Emerson Maxfield.”
“Holden Brown,” he said, extending his own hand.
If James Maxfield weren’t a raging narcissist, Holden might have worried about using his real first name.
But he doubted the older man would ever connect the younger model he’d used for a couple of months and then discarded with Holden. Why would he? James probably barely remembered Soraya’s first name, much less any of her family connections. Holden himself wasn’t famous. And that was how he liked it. He’d always thought it would be handy to have anonymity. He hadn’t imagined it would be for reasons of revenge.
He closed his hand around hers. It was soft, desperately so. The hand of a woman who had never done hard labor in her life, and something in him suddenly felt desperate to make this little princess do some down and dirty work.