Rogue's Revenge
Rogue’s Revenge
by
Gail MacMillan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Rogue’s Revenge
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Gail MacMillan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-791-5
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Gail MacMillan
“Ms. MacMillan spins a lovely story of romance and suspense. This is a great romance. I can't wait to read her next one.”
~Robin, Romancing the Book
~*~
“Really enjoyed this book! Very well written and made me feel I was there, inside the story. Excellent read. I give this book 5 sighs.”
~Let's Talk Romance Reviews
~*~
So, what do you get when you mix these two [hero and heroine], a pug, a German Shepherd, a lot of jinx and a mystery? Amazingly good book, that’s what!
HOLDING OFF FOR A HERO
is an incredibly entertaining read. The characters are great, the chemistry is there from the start, and even though they are doing their best to ignore it, they will fail miserably. There are a lot of witty moments, and just the way Emma is getting under Frasier’s skin, against his will of course, is enough to make this book worth reading….I love this little adventure! It’s sweet, but it won’t give you a toothache. There’s suspense, but it’s not overshadowing the romance. There are quite a few surprises along the way. You’ll keep guessing what’s going on and keep hoping Frasier and Emma will get their happy ending. It’s one light, wonderful read I gladly recommend.”
~Rain Hart, The Romance Reviews
Dedication
To my faithful canine companions
Molly and Barbie-Q.
Chapter One
Allison and her mother followed the pallbearers and coffin out onto the church steps and she saw him for the first time in over a dozen years. Standing alone in the fog beside the waiting hearse, his field coat and Snowy River hat filmed with mist, he brought memories stabbing like a knife blade back into her heart.
Why did he come? He knew I’d be here. Doesn’t he have any shame? Couldn’t he leave me in peace today of all days?
The last time she’d seen him he’d been a lanky teenager in faded jeans and black leather jacket, a rude comeback always ready on his lips, a defiant challenge in his tawny eyes.
But during her years of absence he’d filled out. The open jacket didn’t hide broad shoulders and a lean, firm torso. Beneath it he wore a faded green shirt, with khaki bush pants below. His boots were scuffed and muddy.
Gramps didn’t change him. Heath Oakes is still a hoodlum who doesn’t even know how to dress for the funeral of the man who was like a father to him.
When he looked in her direction, Alison knew his attitude toward her hadn’t altered, either. The moment he recognized her, his mouth curled into a deprecating smirk. He let the power of his feral gaze roam over her. Then he pulled off his hat and strode up the church steps two at a time to assist the pallbearers struggling to get her grandfather’s coffin down the narrow wooden stairway of the century-old country church. Seizing the brass handle on the rear left side, he swung the casket about as easily as Allison recalled he could turn a canoe in the river’s current.
“Dad was right,” Allison heard her mother breathe. “He said Heath was a man who knew how to take charge.”
Myra Armstrong squared her slender shoulders and, with Allison by her side, led the mourners down the church steps behind her father’s casket. In her black Italian trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, she was the epitome of quiet elegance. She moved with an easy, self-assured grace that came from years of practice and well-received results. The few tiny lines at the corners of her soft green eyes suggested an age little more than that of Allison’s older sister if she’d had one. Once, when Allison and Myra had been visiting a horse-breeding farm in search of a new hunter, Allison had overheard one of the grooms refer to Myra as a classy broad. That said it all.
Allison pulled herself back to the moment and joined her mother as Jack Adams’ friends and neighbors surrounded them. One by one they shook hands, offered their condolences, got into their vehicles, and drove out of the mist-shrouded country churchyard. They’d been informed during the funeral service that the graveside ceremony was for family only. Allison, Myra, the undertaker, and Heath were left standing in the thickening fog at the back of the hearse.
“Well.” Myra forced a smile. She swept it wide enough to include Heath and the austere man in black, as well as her daughter. “Shall we go? Heath, will you drive with us?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Armstrong, but I have my own vehicle.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of a battered old canvas-topped Jeep parked a short distance off in the mist. “I’ll meet you there.”
He slapped his hat back over the dark blond hair that curled below his ears and shot Allison another critical head-to-toe appraisal.
You can’t make me squirm, you bit of back-street trash. You won’t.
She stuck out her chin and faced him with what she hoped was an appearance of absolute disdain.
But as their gazes met, her resolve faltered. Why had he grown up to be such eye candy? Why couldn’t he have been as ugly as his parting shot at her all those years ago? The rugged outdoorsman face, bronzed by sun and wind, had the firm jaw lines, high cheekbones, and intense untamed eyes that could easily send a woman’s pulse racing to triple speed.
On occasion, it must have. Allison remembered one of her mother’s wealthy friends describing her visit to her grandfather’s wilderness lodge and nature retreat, the Chance, where Heath was guide foreman and camp manager.
“Robert fished,” Candace Breckenridge had drawled as she sat draped over a chaise longue at the Armstrong’s Muskoka summer place, “while I found my pleasure with that decidedly delicious and heroic-looking wild-woodsman-type guide named Heath. Lord, even his name is earthy and wild! The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew I had to have him. Myra, tell your father never, never to fire that magnificent creature. And that ridiculous scare I had added just the right amount of seasoning to the whole adventure.”
“What scare?” Myra asked.
“Oh, come on now, Myra. You know. Almost being caught? The intrigue is half the fun. But enough in front of the child.” She waved toward Allison.
Allison had stifled the urge to scoff. Magnificent creature? That skinny kid with the rotten manners charming a sophisticated woman like Candace Breckenridge? Preposterous! Now, as she looked at him, she mentally revised her opinion of the possibility.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a Lincoln Continental. The big black car bumped up the dirt road into the churchyard and lurched to a stop close to the hearse. Its driver stepped out, a middle-aged man of medium height, his iron-gray hair, well-tailored charcoal business suit, pearl-white shirt, and silk tie presenting an impeccable appearance.
“Mrs. Armstrong?” He strode over to Myra. “James Wilcox, ma’am, National Realty. Allow me to express my sincere condolences on your loss.”
He would have been a handsome man if it hadn’t been for something hard and measuring in his expression. Smooth, calculating, probably ruthless. As CFO of one of Canada’s leading corporations, Allison had no trouble recognizing the signs.
“And this must be your lovely daughter.” He turned to Allison. “First woman to crack the higher echelons of the Shawville Corporation. Quite an accomplishment, young lady, but being the child of one of Canada’s leading neurosurgeons must have helped.”
Anger shot through her. She’d worked seventy-hour weeks. She’d denied herself a social life. How dare he imply—
“Thank you.” Myra shot Allison a silencing glance. “Have we met?”
“No.” The smile that tilted the corners of his mouth didn’t reach sapphire-cold blue eyes. “But I had approached your father with an offer to purchase his holdings shortly before…the tragedy. I still have a client prepared to make a handsome offer for his lodge and grounds.”
“Buy the Chance?” Myra’s astonishment rang in her voice. “I…really, I’m not…this is hardly an appropriate moment to discuss…”
“Mrs. Armstrong doesn’t want to talk business.” Heath stepped between her mother and the stranger. “I suggest you leave…now.”
“I’d prefer to hear that decision from the lady herself.” James Wilcox held his ground.
“Shove off, Wilcox. Jack wouldn’t do business with you, and neither will his daughter.”
“Mrs. Armstrong, are you going to let this backwoods hoodlum turn away an excellent offer—”
“Please.” Myra held up a hand and lowered her head, shaking it in weary confusion.
Heath’s hands shot out and grabbed James Wilcox’s lapels. So fast it made Allison gasp, he dragged the man to his car and stuffed him inside.
“You can’t do this!” Wilcox yelled, but the door slammed on his words. He shook a fist and yelled muffled threats through the glass. Heath turned and walked back to the group at the hearse.
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Oakes!” The man lowered the window and shouted. “I’ll be back.” Tearing up the church yard lawn, the big car whirled and headed off into the fog.
“Thank you, Heath. I can’t bear to discuss disposing of Dad’s property, especially not today.”
“No problem. We’d better get started.”
He turned away into the mist. Allison watched as he climbed into the dilapidated Jeep he’d indicated earlier and revved the motor.
“Come on, darling.” Myra took her daughter by the elbow to urge her toward their rental car. “We’ll meet Heath at the lane, Mr. Jenkins,” she informed the undertaker, “just as soon as we pick up our luggage at the motel.”
“Are you sure you can manage, Mrs. Armstrong?” The tall, thin man furrowed his pale forehead and rubbed gloved hands together. “I’ve taken care of every detail that I possibly can, but this is a highly unusual arrangement.”
“You’ve covered all the legalities, Mr. Jenkins. Heath can manage the rest.”
“Mom, what do you mean, ‘all the legalities, Heath can manage the rest’?” Allison hissed as mother and daughter started toward their car. “What haven’t you told me? Gramps is going to be buried in the church cemetery, isn’t he?”
“No, dear, he isn’t.” Myra paused, a slender black-gloved hand on the handle of the driver’s door, and turned to look at her daughter. “He’s going to be buried at Adam’s Landing. It was his last wish. I’ve secured the legal clearances.”
“Mom, no! That canoe landing is in the middle of nowhere. It’s only accessible by the river route. This is crazy, especially at this time of year, with a full freshet flooding down from the mountains!” Allison couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Actually, there is a land route.” Her mother slid behind the wheel. “It’s rough, but Heath has assured me we can manage.”
“We…three…alone?” This had to be some crazy, surreal dream full of dense spring fog and crazy ideas…
“Get in, dear.” Her mother started the motor. “It looks like rain. The trail out to the Landing isn’t the best even on a dry summer’s day, and we still have to pick up our suitcases at the motel before checkout time. We mustn’t keep Heath waiting.”
The whole world has gone nuts, and it’s dragging me along with it
. She got into the passenger seat.
“Mom, that man, James Wilcox.”
I have to get a handle on reality. Discuss something down to earth and sane…like business.
“Maybe you should at least hear what he has to say. Not now,” she hastened as Myra threw her an exasperated glance. “But later, after the will is read. You’ll be looking to sell the place and…”
“Allison, really! Your grandfather is barely gone, and you’re discussing liquidation of his assets.” She shifted into drive, and headed the car out of the churchyard.
