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All He Ever Wanted
Emily McKay
After dedicating his life to his family’s company, Dalton Cain won’t let his father just give away his legacy.And he knows just the woman to help. But getting Laney Fortino to trust him again isn’t going to be easy. Years ago, he’d left Laney for her own good. But, feeling the undeniable attraction between them, he vows to rekindle what he’d once thrown away.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He did another one of those slow, lingering perusals of her face and her cheeks burned under his gaze. “Maybe you should be.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe she should be afraid. But she wasn’t. She straightened her spine and the action closed some of the distance between them, bringing her breasts to within a micrometer of his chest.
“Maybe,” she said. “But none of the Cains have power over me anymore. I’ve made sure of that.”
Of course, that was a bald-faced lie, because if he found out the truth, then he most certainly would have power over her. A lot of it.
Dear Reader,
Usually I use this space to talk about the book you’re about to read, but today I wanted to talk about something else. The people who help make my books possible—my editors.
I’ve written seventeen books so far. In that time I’ve worked with eight editors, all of whom have their own strengths and all of whom have made me a better writer. Brenda Chin bought my first book, a Temptation. She taught me so much about how to tighten a story and layer in conflict and emotion. MJ, the editor who brought me from Temptation to Desire™, eased that transition for me. She taught me how to write the big emotional, high drama stories of the Mills & Boon
Desire™ line. Stacy Abrams (my editor at Walker Books) helped me refine my language and tighten up the relationships between characters. And then, there’s Charles, my current editor for Desire, who is perhaps the most fun to work with. Perhaps that’s because I’ve always felt like he really got me as a writer. Plus, he is the most fun at conferences, which makes me the envy of all my writer friends.
All of my editors have worked so hard to make my books better. I cannot imagine my life as a writer without them. Editing is so much more than merely tweaking language. Editors bring an impersonal eye to the story. They point out inconsistencies in character and story that a writer is simply too close to the story to see. They find the things we miss. They see what we cannot.
For all the editors I have worked with, as well as all the other behind-the-scenes folks, thank you!
Emily McKay
About the Author
EMILY MCKAY has been reading romance novels since she was eleven years old. Her first romance book came free in a box of Hefty garbage bags. She has been reading and loving romance novels ever since. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA
Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.EmilyMcKay.com.
All He Ever
Wanted
Emily McKay
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Brenda, Tanya, MJ, Diana, Krista, Stacy, Michelle,
and—perhaps most important!—Charles.
None of my books would be possible without you!
Prologue
By all appearances, Hollister Cain—at sixty-seven years old and recovering from his third massive heart attack—was an inch from death, but it was an inch he clung to with the same ferocity with which he’d ruled the Cain empire for the past forty-four years.
It wasn’t love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons—two legitimate, one bastard—and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them.
Six weeks before, when his health had taken such a drastic turn for the worse, the first-floor study of his house in the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood of Houston had been converted into a state-of-the-art hospital room. Hollister’s ornately carved mahogany desk had been removed, along with the leather wingback chairs and the Edwardian demilune bar.
Undaunted by three heart attacks, double bypass surgery and a failing liver, he still felt a long-term stay in the hospital was beneath him. The arrogant fool.
Though Dalton let himself into the room as silently as he could, Hollister’s eyes flickered open. He released a slow, rasping breath. “You’re late.”
“Of course I am. I was at a board meeting.”
His father would have known this since Cain Enterprises’ board of directors had met every Monday morning at eight for over twenty years. Sometimes it seemed Hollister delighted in forcing Dalton to choose between familial obligations and the company, as if Dalton needed reminding that running Cain Enterprises was a life-consuming endeavor.
Hollister gave a slight but satisfied nod, confirming what Dalton’s gut had already told him. His father was still testing him to make sure his first and only loyalty lay with the company.
“Very well.” Hollister reached for the bed’s controller with a frail, trembling hand. He seemed barely strong enough to press the button to raise the head of the bed.
The bed itself moved slowly, as if echoing Hollister’s strain, and in the moments it took for Hollister to adjust it, Dalton scanned the room again. His mother sat on the chair immediately at his father’s side, her posture stiff, even for her. Griffin Cain, Dalton’s youngest brother, stood just behind their mother, looking understandably tired since he’s just flown in from Scotland the day before. On Hollister’s other side stood Portia, Dalton’s ex-wife, seemingly more at home within the family than Dalton himself had ever felt. Portia was one of the few people both Hollister and Caro liked, which was why she was still a fixture in their lives so long after the divorce. And finally, off in the corner, gazing out the window, as far removed as ever, was Cooper Larsen, Hollister’s illegitimate son.
Cooper did not even glance in Dalton’s direction—or Hollister’s for that matter—but rather lounged negligently against the window’s frame, his expression bored, his attention elsewhere. Cooper’s disinterest didn’t surprise Dalton nearly as much as his actual presence did. Cooper had drifted around the edges of their family for years. For Hollister to have summoned him—and for him to have actually answered the call—the situation must be dire indeed.
By the time the head of the bed was raised, the heart monitor on the medical cart was beeping in a quick rhythm, as if the effort had strained Hollister, but the man’s gaze remained steady and unwavering. He reached for something on the table beside his bed. Caro Cain snapped to attention and offered up the insulated mug of ice water, carefully positioning the straw toward her husband’s mouth, but Hollister swatted it away impatiently. Instead, he grabbed the item that had been resting behind the water, an innocuous white envelope. His fingers fumbled for a minute, as if he might withdraw the contents himself. When they proved too unsteady, he thrust it toward his wife.
“Read it,” he barked, the order no less direct for the frailty of his voice.
Caro frowned as if momentarily confused by this turn of events, but then she pulled out the contents of the envelope and unfolded a single typed page. The paper was thin enough that Dalton could see the shadow of the printed words through the back of it.
Caro glanced once at her husband, who was lying back, eyes closed, hands folded over his broad chest. Then she read aloud. “‘Dear Hollister, it has come to my attention that you are ill and that it is unlikely you will recover from the deadly turn your health has taken. So at last, the devil will take back his minion here on earth. Before you criticize my choice of words, let me assure you of the tremendous restraint I have shown in not calling you the very devil himself. You see, I am no longer the ignorant twit you once accused me of being.’”
Caro paused, looking up from the letter, confusion obvious on her face. “Is this some sort of joke?” she asked.
Hollister grunted and waved his hand in a keep going gesture.
“‘Perhaps you do not even remember uttering those words, but, again, I assure you, I have never forgotten them. Not for one moment. You said them mere moments after having left my—’”
Caro’s voice broke, and she let the letter drop into her lap.
Griffin edged closer to their mother. “This is ridiculous. Why have you called us here? Just to humiliate Mother publicly?”
“Keep reading,” Hollister commanded without opening his eyes.
“I’ll read it.” Griffin reached for the letter.
“No!” barked Hollister. “Caro.”
Caro glanced first at Griffin and then at Dalton before picking the letter up again. Griffin gave her shoulder a little squeeze.
“‘Your words were spoken with such thoughtless cruelty, and for years I prayed for the opportunity to wound you as deeply as you have wounded me. And now, finally after all these years, I have found it.
“‘I know how closely you guard your little empire. How you like to control everyone under your domain. How you manipulate—’” her voice broke on the word and she had to swallow before continuing “‘—and control all those within your fami—’”
Dalton had had enough. He strode forward and snatched the letter out of his mother’s hands. Perhaps Hollister didn’t realize the strain he was placing on his wife by forcing her to read the letter aloud, but more likely, he just didn’t care.
Dalton scanned the letter and then tossed it down onto the bed so that it landed on his father’s chest. He dropped it by instinct, so strong was the hatred and venom in the letter. He was almost surprised that the thing didn’t burst into flames and burn a hole clear through Hollister. It had obviously been crafted to wound him. Since it hadn’t killed him yet, Dalton summed up the contents of the letter for the others, though he assumed they would eventually all read it themselves.
“She claims to have given birth to a daughter of Hollister’s—the missing heiress, she calls her. She refuses to tell Hollister anything other than that. She intends for it to be a form of torture for Hollister, going to his deathbed, knowing that he will never find this daughter of his.”
Dalton looked first at his mother and then at Griffin. Griffin’s hand had tightened on their mother’s shoulder, and she seemed to be summoning the kind of strength that had served her so well through the many years of her marriage. Of course they all knew about Hollister’s philandering: Cooper was living proof of it.
Cooper pushed himself away from the window frame, speaking without even glancing in Hollister’s direction. “So the old man has even more bastard children. I hardly see what that has to do with us.”
Personally, Dalton was inclined to agree. Didn’t he have enough on his plate running Cain Enterprises?
Before anyone else could comment, Hollister opened his eyes again. “I want you to find her.”
“You want me to find her?” Cooper asked.
“All of you,” Hollister wheezed. “Any of you.”
Perfect. This was exactly what Dalton needed: more responsibility. “I’m sure we can find a private investigator who specializes in this sort of thing.”
“No P.I.s,” Hollister barked. “Against the rules.”
“Rules?” Griffin asked. “You want us to find her. Fine. We’ll find her. But this isn’t some sort of game.”
Hollister’s cracked lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Not a game. A test.”
Cooper let out a bark of bitter laughter. “Of course it is. Why else would you have asked me to come if it didn’t involve me having to somehow prove that I was worthy of being your son?”
“Don’t be ridic—” Hollister broke off as a series of body-wrenching coughs seized him “—ridiculous. The test is—” more coughing “—for all of you.”
“Regardless of the rules, I have better things to do with my time than to jump through your hoops,” Griffin said. “So you can count me out. I’m not interested.”
“Me neither,” said Cooper.
“You will be.”
Hollister said it with such absolute conviction a chill went through Dalton. Their father may be weak—he may even be dying—but Dalton had learned long ago that Hollister never spoke with conviction unless he knew he could back it up.
As if he’d read Dalton’s thoughts, Hollister turned his rheumy blue gaze to Dalton. “You will all be interested, because whichever one of you finds this missing heiress will inherit all of Cain Enterprises.”
Well, that certainly changed things.
Dalton had always known his father was a jerk, but this? He’d never imagined his father was capable of this.
Dalton had devoted his life to Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. “And what happens if no one finds her?” he found himself asking.
A hush seemed to fall over the room as Hollister sucked in one rattling breath after another before finally whispering, “My entire fortune will revert to the state.”
One
“He’s not really going to do it,” Griffin said, as he unlocked the door to his condo and stepped aside to let Dalton in. “Cain Enterprises means as much to him as it does to any of us. He’d never let the state sell off his share of the company.”
“If it was any other man, I’d agree.” Dalton waited until Griffin had flipped on the lights before walking into the living room. “But he doesn’t bluff. You know that.”
Griffin owned the penthouse condo of the downtown high-rise where Dalton also lived. When Portia had asked for a divorce, Dalton had purchased the condo two floors down from Griffin’s. The building was close to work but overpriced. Its main appeal was that because he’d been to Griffin’s condo, he could buy it without having to waste a day following around some Realtor.
Griffin’s condo was decorated in sleek cream leather and a lot of chrome. It was expensive and modern and, Dalton also thought, overly stark. On the other hand, his own condo was still decorated in mid-century-kicked-out-of-my-house-style, so he had little room to criticize.
Dalton headed straight for the sectional that dominated the space in front of the TV. Griffin gestured toward the wet bar tucked into the corner. He nodded to the row of bottles. “What’ll you have?”
Dalton glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon.”
“Right. After Dad’s little bombshell, I think a drink is called for.”
“Fine.” Who was he to argue a point like that? And maybe a stiff drink would steady the rug that felt like it had been jerked out from under his feet. “I’ll have a scotch.”
Griffin rolled his eyes as if to say he thought Dalton was an idiot. Then he pulled out several bottles—none of which contained scotch—and started pouring splashes into a cocktail shaker.
“Do you have any idea if he can legally do this?”
“Unfortunately, I think he can.” Dalton ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Mother will still get all of their co-mingled assets—the houses, cars and their money. But all of his Cain stock is his to do with as he pleases. It would have been split evenly between the three of us. Now, who knows what will happen.”
“I figure you have the most to lose here. What are you going to do?”
Dalton slipped out of his jacket and draped it over the arm of the sofa. Sighing, he sat down and scrubbed a hand down his face. When it came to this crazy scheme of his father’s, he undoubtedly had the most to lose. He’d devoted his entire life to becoming the perfect future CEO of Cain Enterprises. Every choice he’d made from the time he was ten—from his hobbies as a child to his extracurricular activities in high school, to his college education, to the woman he married—had been about Cain Enterprises. He wasn’t going to let his father piss it all away on a whim.
“One option is to wait until the bastard actually dies and then take the matter to court.”
Griffin popped the top on the silver shaker and then gave it a vigorous jiggle. “At which point, all Father’s assets will be tied up in litigation for a decade or so. Good plan.”
Dalton leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “If he wasn’t already on his deathbed, I’d kill him for this.”
“I’d help.” Griffin chuckled as he scooped ice into glasses and then covered the ice with whatever concoction he’d mixed up. “On the bright side, the board loves you. Even if Father’s assets did revert to the state, all his Cain stock would be sold, right? He alone doesn’t even have a controlling majority. The board would most likely keep you on.”
“And then you could keep your job as VP of international relations as well.”
Griffin gave a little chuckle. “Yes. That would be ideal.”
They both knew Griffin’s job was a cushy one and not the kind he was likely to find anywhere else.
Griffin sliced a lime into wedges, squeezed one into each glass and then tossed another on top. “Sure, you’d be less insanely rich, but you’d still be CEO of Cain Enterprises.”
“That would be the best-case scenario, yes.” Dalton took the glass his brother handed him and eyed the pale green concoction. “This isn’t scotch.”
“Two years as a mixologist in college. I think I can do better than pouring you a scotch. This is me broadening your horizons.”
Dalton took a hesitant sip. It was surprisingly good, less sweet than a margarita and with enough punch to knock a grown man on his ass—especially one who’d already been knocked on his ass once that day.
