The Rogue And The Rich Girl

Jared, this one is for you, light of my life, with thanks for the inspiration and unwavering belief.

Dear Reader,

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer. Even as a child, I spun fantastical tales, an outlet for a very creative imagination. Along the way, several special people encouraged me in ways I’ll never forget.

In elementary school, the librarian actually gave the books I wrote their own shelf and glued checkout cards on the inside covers. In junior high, a teacher gave me a full year’s credit of science projects for writing a book. I can’t forget my mother, either, for always encouraging me to believe I could be anything I dreamed.

A lot of things have changed over the years, but not my love of the written word and the power it holds.

The call from Karen Taylor Richman at Silhouette changed my life, helping me realize a lifelong dream.

It’s my sincere hope that I can capture your heart and engage your emotions, taking you away to the imaginary world I create. Just for a minute, I want you to take time out of your busy schedule for yourself, relax and enjoy.

All my very best wishes to you,

Christine Pacheco

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Ace Lawson glanced up from where he crouched on the airplane wing. The taxicab pulled to a halt, and he checked the scarred surface of his watch, not surprised to note it was already ten minutes past the hour.

As the woman opened the back door, he lifted his aviator glasses for a closer look.

Maybe it had been worth the wait.

Ankles, then calves emerged. He swore he heard the whisper of silk as she slipped from the car. But that was impossible—the taxi’s engine hummed loudly. Obviously it had been too long since he’d been with a woman.

She paid the driver, leaning over to do so.

Ace allowed a long, low whistle.

If only he’d known this was a reward, he would have given up the boardroom five years earlier than he had.

The taxi sped off in a cloud of dust, leaving silence between him and the woman. She walked toward him. With one hand she carried a suitcase, with the other she clutched a tooled leather briefcase. In the wink of the morning sun, he noted the bright red of her sculptured nails.

Auburn hair flirted with her shoulders, a few wisps playing across her face in the desert heat. A skirt clung to her thighs, outlining the length of leg. A blazer hugged her shoulders, thankfully minus any scary linebacker padding.

She exuded professionalism, from her spiked heels to silk blouse. Yet none of the armor hid her obviously dormant sensuality.

Ace jumped from the wing, then leaned back against it, dropping his glasses into place, determined to enjoy the show. He told himself she was a client, that her money paid his bills and bought medical supplies he needed to help the underprivileged. But none of that prevented him from watching the soft sway of her hips.

He allowed a quick grin. Her dress-for-success uniform might look good now, but he’d bet dollars to plane tickets she would be wilted in under an hour. Maybe less. And on Cabo de Bello, where artillery had been flying as often as pesky gulls, the rebels would likely find her an amusing diversion.

Oh well, if she wanted to act as though she were going on the Love Boat, he wouldn’t stop her.

“Ace Lawson?” she asked, her voice slightly lilting, oddly intoxicating.

“Yep,” he said, accepting her outstretched hand. Warm. Smooth. Healthy. A hell of a contradiction to some of the women’s hands he’d seen lately. “And you’re late,” he added. Just like his ex had always been.

“Sorry.” Her smile remained firmly in place, although she pulled back her hand.

He wondered if his calluses bothered her. Wondered if the dirt under his nails bothered her. But he’d just finished a run. He wanted a cool shower, a colder beer and a soft pillow, but they were luxuries that had to wait.

“I didn’t realize you meant to take off promptly at ten.”

He ignored the apology. “Are you going to fly dressed like that? Or do you want five minutes to change?”

“Change?” Her smile vanished and she looked at her sheath-style skirt and spike-heeled leather pumps.

He took in the slick package of her chic appearance. Hell, the lady probably spent more each month on clothes than he’d made in the past ten years. What things he could do for others with that kind of money.

“Honey, you look like a million bucks, but your stockings are going to be glued to your legs and my seats eat stockings for lunch.” He shrugged elaborately. “And them heels...”

“My heels? What’s wrong with them?”

He didn’t even try to hide his amusement as she tried to pull the sunken heel from the tar.