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Chapter One
"Don't do it!" Jack hissed as the curvy redhead reached for the handle of the abandon–all–hope–all–ye–who–enter–here dress store.
Pausing—which only managed to get her even wetter as the rain teamed down—she stared longingly for a few seconds at a silky red temptation in the boutique next door.
"Yes!" He thumped his hand on the wheel for emphasis, then swore as she disappeared inside the dowdy–dump dress store.
Even Jack Castle couldn't have everything he wanted, Jack accepted with a wry shrug as he relaxed back in his car. And why should he care? He didn't even know the woman. Had the controlling interest he'd recently acquired in a film studio made him a magnet for human drama? More likely it was the breasts. They were magnificent breasts...
He sat up as the redhead emerged from the store loaded down with carrier bags. She looked harassed—even more at her wits end—when a small, angry man accosted her. She appeared to know him, so Jack forced his white knight back inside the box, and resigned himself to watching the scene play out.
The small man continued to shout, while the woman did her best placate him. What had she done to piss him off? His hackles rose as the small guy pawed at her, badgering her until finally she gave in and reached inside her purse to bring out a gold card.
"Don't do it!" he roared. This was going to end badly.
His jaw tightened as he watched the small man hurry away. He shook his head, feeling some sympathy for the redhead. She knew she'd been had.
But then she drew herself up and he smiled. She was a survivor.
Harold had scammed her again, telling her he would have to sell the last of her mother's jewelry if she didn't hand over her credit card. There was only her mother's wedding ring left. He'd sold everything else, but no way was he pawning that ring. She could only comfort herself with the thought that Harold wouldn't get far with her card. He'd already exceeded her limit, but now her credit rating would be zero, thanks to him.
She was married to a cartoon cutout, drunken bully who had never loved her. He'd even confirmed his lack of affection for her just now in the street. Harold Frost had no further use for Arabella Frost, and he'd yelled in her face, as if she were hard of hearing. Once she put her signature on a contract to sell their house, they would be done.
The house Harold was referring to had been in Arabella's family for generations. The beautiful grounds had already been sold off to pay his debts. The land had been parceled up in lots and sold on for a song, like dresses in a thrift store. There was just the house left—the house Harold intended to sell off at the bottom of the market. He had to, he said, or he'd go to prison this time for non–payment of his debts.
There wasn't a day when Arabella didn't wonder why she'd married Harold. The only answer she could come up with, was that she had been a hormonally driven, stupid, spotty, eighteen–year–old with a horror of living forever with her parents. Harold had seemed to offer an escape route from spinsterdom—until he informed her that he loved the old house, and could see nothing wrong with living with her parents.
Her parents were dead now, driven to their graves by the son–in–law who'd sucked them dry, so there was just Arabella—and snooty, overbearing Harold, who owned a half share in everything she had—or what was left of it.
Why didn't she leave him earlier? The answer to that was simple too. She had nowhere else to go. She wouldn't dream of imposing herself on her friends. And why should she walk out of her family home and leave it to Harold? The fight didn't end there. She wanted to bring the house and land back together. She knew this was a fantasy, but she was programmed, like the stubborn old cow Harold called her, to put right his wrongs.
Today of all days she could have done without Harold ranting. She was arranging a party for one of her closest friends and wanted everything to be perfect. Harold was doing everything he could to get in her way, though he wouldn't complain when he brought his cronies along and they drank the party dry.
The party was to celebrate her friend Miranda's one–year anniversary with Randy, her hot cowboy. Miranda was an emergency room doctor with zero hours to spare, so Arabella had offered to arrange everything for her.
She could handle pretty much everything for everyone but herself, Arabella concluded ruefully. Even her old friend the cosmos had turned against her. She had always been a fan of astrology, and had clung to her beliefs through thick and thin. Of course she had. She was stubborn. She was Taurus the bull.
Sadly, the cosmos didn't award brownie points to its fans, and Mercury was permanently in retrograde in her chart.
Casting one last yearning look at the red dress in the shop window, she turned away. It was well out of her price range, and probably wouldn't fit. Heaving the parcel containing her sensible party dress into a more comfortable position, she hurried off to get on with her shopping.
He tensed when the redhead turned to take one last lingering look at the slinky, form–fitting dress he had wanted her to buy. It wasn't just an eye–catching red dress, it was the type of dress designed for women for whom life was an adventure. He cursed softly when the young female lawyer he was waiting for knocked on his window, distracting him.
"Get in," he invited.
"Why couldn't we meet in my office?" she complained, bringing a warm, damp smell inside the car with her, laced with some heavy perfume.
"I don't have time," he said. "As my lawyer, you should know that."
With a sigh, she shook her head.
He forgave her. He liked female lawyers. They took no prisoners. He was a busy man. He didn't have time to waste in anyone's office drinking coffee and exchanging pleasantries.
"Here are the particulars for The Old Hall, and the land registry document you asked for." She passed them over. "There's only one hurdle."
"Which is?" He'd hired the lawyer on the basis of her local knowledge. She went by the improbable name of Poppy Dash—a cute name for a Rottweiler.
"The only sticking point is the old boot he's married to, according to Harold Frost—the charmer who's trying to sell you the house. They share The Old Hall jointly, but it's been in her family for generations. He has right to half the legal title through marriage."
"You sound as if you don't approve," he murmured as he leafed through the documents.
"I don't. He's vile. And even if his wife is as bad as he says she is, he shouldn't be trying to sell the house behind her back."
"You're saying Mrs. Frost knows nothing of my interest in the house?"
"It's Lady Frost. The title's hers too. He was a no–good throwback her parents chose for their plain, overweight daughter when she was eighteen, and for no better re
ason than he had the right background, I was told."
He frowned. "And she agreed to that?"
"It was her best hope, the lady at the cake shop told me. It was that or be left on the shelf."
"A better prospect than being hooked up to Harold Frost, surely?"
