скачать книгу бесплатно
A Marriage Between Friends
Melinda Curtis
They were just friends when they got married.Jill desperately needed a father for her unborn child, and Vince Patrizio wanted to give them both his name. And if Jill could ever learn to love him, he'd consider himself a fortunate man. Then Jill walked out of his life. But eleven years later, it's Vince's turn to have his say.Arriving in Jill's sleepy California town, he has plans to transform it into a mini Vegas…to reclaim his wife…and to meet the son who should have been theirs. And Vince isn't leaving until he gets what he came for.
“It’s good to see you, Jill. You look great.”
As Vince approached, his gaze drifted over her.
“You, too.” She didn’t have to tell Vince he looked better than great. He probably knew it. She could imagine the babes roaming Vegas fell regularly at his feet.
He held her immobile with his dark gaze as he continued to narrow the gap between them. She could barely remember her own name, much less his. She wanted to put up her guard, but she couldn’t lift a finger. And her feet…her feet weren’t moving either.
He wasn’t stopping. Her heart thudded against her chest.
Long arms reached for her. Settled on her shoulders and drew her to him.
Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t…
Dear Reader,
I first met Vince in Count on Love. He was angry and impetuous, and caused a lot of grief to my other characters—a bad boy in need of his comeuppance! I fell in love and began devising his romantic demise. But he was a bad boy and didn’t want to be tamed; not by me, not by his grandfather and certainly not by his long-lost wife, Jill.
And Jill? Jill is so used to staying the course—alone—that having an overbearing man around (much less an overbearing husband!) who interferes with every aspect of her life and makes her feel things she’d resolved never to feel again…well, it’s not right. She’s determined to thwart Vince at every turn, even if she and Vince were friends in school before she let him talk her into a marriage they never got around to consummating.
I hope you enjoy Jill and Vince’s journey. I love to hear from readers, either via snail mail, P.O. Box 150, Denair, CA 95316, or at my Web site, www.MelindaCurtis.com, which is full of fun trivia and monthly contests.
Happy reading!
Melinda Curtis
A Marriage Between Friends
Melinda Curtis
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melinda Curtis lives in Northern California with her husband, three kids, two Labradors, two cats and a circle of friendly neighbors who eagerly weigh in on everything from the best way to cut your lawn to the best haircut for a fourth grader—just what good friends are for!
To the patient ones in my life—my dh, my cat and
my editor. Good things come to those who wait!
And to the dreamers in my life—
Mason, Colby and Chelsea. It’s good to dream big.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE THING ABOUT RELYING only on yourself was that you had no one else to blame when things went wrong.
Vince Patrizio downshifted his Porsche 911 and hugged another hairpin turn in the California gold country. This bend in the road didn’t bring Railroad Stop into view, either. Why am I not surprised?
His GPS didn’t work in the uncharted territory at the foot of the mountains and he was unable to get a solid signal on his cell phone. He was late, lost and about to lose an important deal, one that would most likely cost him his inheritance.
Vince cursed and shifted into a higher gear, the force cocooning him deeper into the cradle of fine German leather that felt as welcoming as a well-paid stripper’s back-room embrace. The car shot over a sharp rise, startling a deer next to the road. Luckily the doe ran away and down into a ravine, instead of into Vince’s path.
He took a deep breath and slowed the car. It was a beautiful early-September afternoon and the narrow ribbon of road beckoned, promising he’d end up somewhere, if not exactly where he wanted to be.
The story of my life.
He’d always been a runner-up, never a winner. Born to wealth but part of a dysfunctional family, left by his wife on their wedding night, what would Vince do but screw up if faced with success and happiness?
That was his grandfather talking. Because of a card game, his grandfather had agreed to stake Vince, but only if he could put a deal together in a year. Aldo Patrizio expected Vince to fail. And for ten months Vince had been doing just that.
Vince cursed again. He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and attacked another turn.
Red lights flashed in his rearview mirror. A siren screamed.
“Now that’s par for the course,” Vince mumbled as he coasted into one more curve before pulling over onto the narrow shoulder beneath an ancient oak tree, hoping the sheriff was as good at giving directions as he was speeding tickets.
“THIS MEETING IS ADJOURNED.” Jill Tatum Patrizio had never been so happy to raise her gavel. Railroad Stop was safe.
“No!” Arnie Eagle grabbed the mayor’s symbol of power mid-stroke, his tan fingers brushing hers.
Instinctively Jill let go of the gavel, relinquishing it to her political rival.
Why did a man’s touch still rattle her after all this time?
Laughter rippled through the standing-room-only crowd at the community center, bringing Jill back to the present. Her cheeks heated. She stood and stepped back from the old warped table.
The city councilman’s gaze remained fixed speculatively on Jill even as he said, “We’re still waiting for our guest speaker.”
That was where Jill had him. Arnie couldn’t say they were still waiting for the tribe’s venture capitalist to show up. That would be admitting a conflict of interest with his position on the city council.
More than aware of some three hundred Railroad Stop residents and her own son watching them, Jill lifted her chin and connected with Arnie’s hard gaze. She would never support a casino in this isolated town. Railroad Stop was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and it was impossible not to feel at ease.
“I’m sorry, Arnie,” she said. “We’ve rearranged the city council’s agenda for you twice already. This town needs us to act to revive our economy. Since the Amador Tribal Council still lacks financing for its casino, the gated-vacation-home project will most likely garner our support. This meeting is over.”
Voices filled the air. People rose to their feet. Arnie’s Native American cronies began to circle him, but Jill could still feel his eyes on her. Other attendees stood and chatted or ambled out to clog the aisles. It seemed everyone but Jill was reluctant to leave, an indicator that Jill’s phone would ring off the hook with calls from citizens both for and against the casino come Monday morning.
Eager to make an exit, Jill managed to reach Teddy, her ten-year-old son, and Edda Mae, her former boss and mentor. They inched their way through the throng. Edda Mae tapped a woman’s shoulder with a sun-mottled, wrinkled hand and asked if they could squeeze past her. They were halfway up the side aisle and still had the rear of the room to cross.
“I would’ve liked to hear what Arnie’s man had to say,” Edna Mae said.
“Not me,” Teddy piped up. “Grown-up speeches are boring, especially Mom’s integer speech.”
“That’s integrity,” Jill corrected, edging around a particularly large gentleman engrossed in a heated discussion about the merits of a casino versus a vacation subdivision. “Don’t knock it. That’s what got me elected.”
“You were the only one who ran,” Edda Mae said.
“That doesn’t mean no one else cares,” Jill grumbled, bumped from behind by someone.
There was a commotion at the exit doors.
“Either Arnie’s man finally arrived,” Edda Mae said, “or the Staitin brothers picked a fight again.”
Jill wasn’t sure which was worse.
ALDO PATRIZIO wasn’t listening. The conference room at the Sicilian in Las Vegas was full of pompous men in designer suits who thought their college degrees made them more qualified to run a luxury casino than the man in his eighties who’d founded it in the first place. At least when his grandson, Vince, sat at this table, there had been some interesting ideas and a man with backbone to present them.
Che peccato. It was a shame that after Vince returned from Iraq they’d shouted themselves into a corner neither was willing to back out of.
Aldo snorted and the suit currently babbling in front of a projection screen froze in midsentence. When the man resumed, he spoke louder, as if Aldo had trouble hearing him. Aldo could hear just fine. He just didn’t want to listen to people who’d barely cut their teeth in the gambling business try to tell him what to do. What he did want was to pass the reins of the Sicilian to his grandson and spend more time with his beloved Rosalie.
Instead, Vince was off trying to prove himself by brokering a deal—a deal that had seemed important to both of them ten months ago—while Aldo had to sit and suffer through meetings with MBAs (Masters of Baloney, Advanced).
“In conclusion—”
Good, they were almost done.
“Our analysis has shown that independent casinos fail over time if not infused with a good deal of capital.”
Aldo narrowed his eyes at the audacity of the speaker, who cleared his throat and continued, “Therefore, we recommend that the Sicilian formulate exit strategies from current partnerships, such as the ones with the Tatums, that we cease efforts to enter the Native American gaming segment, and that we seriously reconsider recent buyout offers from two different casino magnates.”
“Enough!” Aldo slapped his palm on the mahogany table and glared at his chief financial officer. “What is our occupancy rate?”
The man rotated his chin as if his tie was too tight. “Over ninety-eight percent.”
“How do our room rates compare to others along The Strip?”
“We charge five percent more on average.”
“And our restaurants. Do we still have five-star ratings at all of them?”
Heads bobbed silently around the room. A bigger collection of jamooks he’d never seen.
“And our casino profits, are they also above average?”
More nodding heads.
“Then why would I want to sell?” Aldo slapped the table again for good measure.
When no one answered, Aldo stood, willing his old knees to hold up as he nailed each traitor with his glare. “I pay you to bring my vision to life, not to create a new one.”
Next thing you knew they’d be declaring him incompetent and trying to take over the control of his casino!
“IT’S HIM.”
“He’s here.”
Vince stood in the open doorway only a moment before arms pulled him into the packed community center like fans welcoming a rock star.
This is good. This is better than good.
“Let him through,” a man bellowed from the front of the large, ancient hall.
“The town council meeting is over,” said someone from the far side of the room. It was impossible to see who it was in the sea of faces or, over the noise, make out more than that the speaker was a woman.
“Then we’ll call a meeting of the Amador Tribal Council. I hereby call this meeting to order.” A man with distinguished gray in the dark hair at his temples took up a position behind the front table. With the strong features and bronze skin, he had to be the tribal chairman, Arnie Eagle. Vince had spoken with him several times about providing the bulk of the financing for a casino.
Chairs scraped and banged as people fought for a seat. A few men hurried to fill the spots at the table while others moved to stand behind them.
Pausing only to tug his starched cuffs farther down his wrists, Vince pasted on his warmest smile and walked to the podium.
“Good evening. I apologize for being late. My name is Vince Patrizio.”
