He’s put family first for years. Now he wants to be wild.

So his best friend’s little sister is off-limits. Right?

Lachlyn Latimore is the long-lost Ballantyne daughter, but she wants no part of her famous family. Too bad the paparazzi missed the memo. Enter Reame Jepsen, the wealthy security expert who’s vowed to keep his best friend’s sister safe. Even if that means moving in, staying close and giving in to the forbidden...

JOSS WOOD loves books and traveling—especially to the wild places of southern Africa. She has the domestic skills of a potted plant and drinks far too much coffee.

Joss has written for Harlequin KISS, Harlequin Presents and, most recently, the Mills & Boon Desire line. After a career in business, she now writes full-time. Joss is a member of the Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of South Africa.

Also by Joss Wood

Convenient Cinderella BrideHis Ex’s Well-Kept SecretThe Ballantyne BillionairesThe CEO’s Nanny AffairLittle Secrets: Unexpectedly PregnantOne Night to Forever

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

One Night to Forever

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07644-9

ONE NIGHT TO FOREVER

© 2018 Joss Wood

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

One

Lachlyn Latimore walked into the hallway of what was perhaps the most famous brownstone in Manhattan, possibly the world. Known to New Yorkers as The Den, it was five stories of weathered brick, owned and lived in by multiple generations of the Ballantyne family.

The family she was apparently linked to by DNA.

Lachlyn politely thanked Linc Ballantyne when he took her vintage coat and draped it over the back of a chaise longue chair to the right of the wood and stained glass front door. Lachlyn hoped that he didn’t notice the coat’s frayed pocket or missing button.

Lachlyn folded her arms across her plain white long-sleeved top and resisted the urge to wipe her damp hands on her black skinny jeans. As the newly discovered, illegitimate daughter of Connor Ballantyne, who’d been jeweler to the world’s richest and most powerful people and a Manhattan legend, she had a right to feel intimidated. Connor might have passed years ago but his children were as influential and celebrated as their late father.

Lachlyn darted a glance at the portrait of Connor situated on the wall directly opposite the grand staircase. She’d inherited Connor’s blue eyes, bright blond hair, that straight, fine nose. She had her mom’s tiny build and wide, full mouth but the rest of her was, dammit, pure Ballantyne.

“Thanks for coming over, Lachlyn. Let’s go down to the family room,” Linc suggested and gestured her to follow him, but before they could move, the doorbell rang.

Linc sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry, that’s my son’s babysitter.” Retracing his steps, he placed his hand on the carved newel post and called up the stairs. “Shaw? Reame is here.”

Linc flipped open the lock to the front door and Lachlyn watched a very tall man step into the hallway to immediately dominate the space. Now, that was a hell of a babysitter, Lachlyn thought. While Linc and the sexy stranger did that half handshake, half hug men did, Lachlyn made a bullet list of the sexy stranger’s attributes: caramel-colored hair, tanned olive skin, golden scruff on his jaw. Wide shoulders, narrow hips and a fairly spectacular ass...

She wasn’t one to normally notice men’s butts, so this was new. His eyes—a clear, light green—touched her face and she felt like she was all woman, utterly desirable. Lachlyn searched for air, found none and decided breathing didn’t matter if she had him to look at. She felt alive, sexy, in tune and in touch with every spark of femininity she possessed. He oozed confidence and capability and God, he made her feel alive.

So this was that thing they called sexual attraction. Hot, pulsing, making her ache with a need to touch and be touched. He looked like a modern-day Sir Galahad, the original white knight: strong, capable, decisive and sexy enough to turn medieval and modern-day female heads.

He wasn’t her type, though. In order to have a type, you had to be interested in dating, men and relationships.

Hearing a yell from above their heads, Lachlyn dragged her eyes from his muscled thighs—what were her eyes doing down there?—and looked up to watch a young boy dash down the stairs. From five steps up, the child threw himself into the air and Lachlyn released a terrified gasp, convinced that his small body would make contact with the floor. She stumbled forward but before she could make any progress, the tall man caught the child and tucked him under his arm like a football.

Lachlyn placed her hand on her heart and closed her eyes. Holy crap, she’d thought the kid was going to end up splattered all over the wooden floor.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, Shaw,” Linc stated, not looking or sounding worried. In fact, of the three of them, she seemed to be the only one who was remotely concerned about blood, broken bones or stitches.

Linc gestured to Lachlyn. “Reame, meet Lachlyn Latimore. Lachlyn, Reame Jepsen is my oldest friend. And he’s holding my son, Shaw.”

The man dropped Shaw to his feet and their eyes collided. Whoosh—there went the air in the room. Again.

“Ms. Latimore.”

His voice was deep and held just a hint of gravel, a touch of rasp. Lachlyn wanted to know what his words felt like as they hit her bare skin... He held out a hand and she could easily imagine it gliding over her hip, cupping her breast. Lachlyn felt lava flow into her cheeks and ignored his broad, masculine hand. She didn’t trust herself to touch him. She wasn’t going to risk spontaneously combusting and setting Linc’s hallway alight.

“Hi,” she muttered, looking down at her shoes.

“Hi back.” Yeah, she heard the amusement in his words. Lachlyn forced her eyes up and...yep, she caught his quick smirk. Reame Jepsen liked the effect he had on women and wasn’t even a tiny bit surprised by her ridiculous reaction. Usually that smirk would be a total turn-off but instead of being repulsed, she found his self-confidence attractive. Even alluring.

Oh, man. Not good. In fact, very, very bad.

“Unca Reame!”

Reame’s eyes left her face—thank God, she felt pinned to the floor—to look down at Shaw, who was hanging on to his bulging-with-muscles arm. Oh, stop it, Lachlyn! Shaw monkey-climbed up the side of Reame’s body, eventually settling on Reame’s hip. Lachlyn watched as Shaw lifted his top lip to show Reame a bloody gap in his mouth.

“I losth my tooth,” Shaw lisped.

“I see that,” Reame replied. “You look gross.”

Shaw grinned before scowling. “The tooth fairy forgot to come.”

Standing behind Shaw, Linc grimaced and rolled his eyes. Lachlyn might not know a lot about kids but it was obvious that someone forgot to leave cash under Shaw’s pillow. “Bummer. The tooth fairy who services this area must be a bit of a slacker,” Reame said, managing to keep his face straight.

“Mom said it’s because I didn’t pick up my toys and that the tooth fairy is probably a girl and girl fairies don’t like messy rooms,” Shaw said, looking disgusted.

“Maybe that’s it.”

There was nothing sexier than watching a handsome man interacting with a cute kid, Lachlyn decided. They could easily be part of a TV commercial and would sell the advertised product by the caseload.

“Try again tonight, bud,” Reame suggested and Lachlyn’s lips quirked at the don’t you dare forget look he sent Linc.

“Can we go already?” Shaw whined, tugging on Reame’s arm.

Reame nodded and Lachlyn saw the smile he directed at the young boy. It was open and affectionate and ten times more powerful than his earlier smirk. It was obvious that he enjoyed Linc’s son and Linc seemed fully comfortable in handing Shaw into his care. Since everyone in the city knew that Linc was a devoted and protective father, he had to have complete faith that Reame would keep Shaw safe. That was, Lachlyn realized, a hell of an endorsement. Jepsen might look like a sports model but Linc trusted him with his son so that meant he had to have some skills.

Lachlyn listened as Linc and his friend confirmed arrangements for dropping Shaw off and within thirty seconds, the gorgeous man and the gregarious boy were gone and she was alone with Linc.

She wanted to know who Reame was and how he fit into Linc’s life. So, strangely for her, she asked.

“I’ve known him all my life. We lived in the same neighborhood as young kids,” Linc replied. “My mom got the job as Connor’s housekeeper and we moved into this house but, despite living totally different lives on opposite sides of the city, Reame and I remained friends.”

She shouldn’t ask anything more, but no man had ever affected her the way Reame had and, well, she was curious. “Does he work for you, at Ballantyne International?”

“God, no, we’d kill each other.” Linc shook his head, seemingly at ease with her questions. “Reame owns a security consulting company. He was in the military, in one of those hush-hush units that did hush-hush things. He has a hell of a military record, including some hefty commendations for bravery. For a couple of years, I didn’t see or hear from him for months at a time. That’s the life these Special Forces guys lived. Then...” Linc hesitated and Lachlyn gave him a sharp look. He wasn’t going to stop talking now, was he?

“Then?” Lachlyn prompted, accompanying the question with a mental slap.

“He had a crisis in his family and he needed to come home. His mom and sisters needed him. He left the military and started work as Connor’s bodyguard. He’s a natural entrepreneur, so after picking up more clients, he started employing his military friends as bodyguards and his security business was born. Add in cheating spouse investigations and cyber security for corporations, and Jepsen & Associates is one of the biggest security companies in the city,” Linc said, sounding proud.

Beauty, brawn and brains. It was a good thing that she’d never see him again; the man was trouble.

Big, beautiful trouble.

* * *

Walking away from The Den, Reame slowed his steps so that Shaw didn’t have to jog to keep up with him. “So, want to tell me why you sent me an SOS message? I thought we agreed that you can only use that message for emergencies.”

Reame hadn’t been worried when he received the “help me” picture-message sent from Tate’s phone two hours earlier since he’d been on a call with Linc at the time and knew that everything was fine at The Den.

“It was an emergency. Spike wanted you to take me to the batting cages.”

Yeah, right. “An emergency is when someone is hurt, or there’s a fire or there’s blood. Not a message about baseball from a bearded dragon, Shaw,” Reame told his godson. “Does Tate know that you used her phone?”

Tate was Linc’s fiancée and the reason his best mate now walked around with a dopey, having-great-sex look on his face. Actually, all the Ballantyne men had lucked out with their women. It was strange to see his childhood friends settled down. It wasn’t that long ago that they were all running around Manhattan, enjoying their status as the island’s most eligible bachelors. But recently, each of them had fallen and fallen hard. Reame, a die-hard bachelor and commitment-phobe, had laughed his ass off.

He liked Piper, Cady and Tate and respected his friends’ choices. But settling down wasn’t something he was interested in. The thought of placing himself in that situation caused his throat to close and his stomach to cramp.

Marriage, the emotional equivalent of antifreeze...

Pulling his attention back to Shaw, Reame realized that he had yet to answer his question. “Well?”

“Kind of.”

That meant no. Before Reame could chastise him, Shaw turned those big blue eyes on him. “It was a ’mergency, Uncle Ree. I would’ve had to go to Auntie Piper’s house ’cause dad wanted to talk to that lady. And I’d have to play with the babies,” Shaw complained. “Since you were only working, I thought we could hang out.”

Only working... If that’s what he could call running a multimillion-dollar international security business. “I needed you to save me from playing with the babies,” Shaw stated dramatically.

Master manipulator, Reame thought, but, damn, he was cute. Reame sighed and shook his head. He’d survived brutal training, fought in intense battles both in war and in the boardroom, but he was putty in Shaw’s hands. The reality was that if Shaw—or any of the Ballantynes—called he’d drop everything. They were family. It was what they did.

“That lady was pretty,” Shaw said, cleverly changing the subject.

Pretty? No. She was heart-stoppingly, spine-tinglingly beautiful and he hadn’t had such a primitive reaction to a woman in, well, years. Possibly not ever.

Reame looked down into the mischievous face of his godson and lifted his eyebrows. “Aren’t you a little young to be noticing pretty girls?” he asked.

Shaw wrinkled his nose, bunching his freckles together. God, he loved this kid. “She’s my Grandpa Connor’s real daughter. But she wasn’t ’dopted by him, like Dad was.”

“So I heard, bud.”

When the Ballantynes first heard of Lachlyn’s possible connection to their family—thanks to her brother, Tyce Latimore—Reame had immediately ordered his best investigator to dig into her life. On paper, she seemed like nothing special. She lived alone, worked at the New York Public Library, seemed to keep to herself. Nothing about her raised any flags but looking at the photo in the file, his stomach had flipped. Back then, for some reason, and although he’d yet to meet her, she’d bothered him. Despite not knowing anything about her except that she was Connor’s daughter, she’d made him feel queasy, unsettled.

The same instinct that had saved his ass on many hot situations as a Special Forces operative had screamed that Lachlyn Latimore would have some impact on his life.

Meeting her hadn’t done anything to quiet the raging bats-on-speed in his stomach, Reame thought, keeping a light hand on Shaw’s shoulder as they walked to a baseball center a few blocks away from The Den. The photos in Lachlyn’s file hadn’t done her justice. Her eyes and face were Connor’s but her eyes were a deeper blue, almost violet, her face finer, her cheekbones more pronounced, and her mouth looked like it was made to be kissed. She was tiny, she barely reached his shoulder, but curvy and strung tighter than a steel guitar.

It had taken every ounce of his willpower to wrench his eyes off her exquisite face in order to catch Shaw’s midair flight. Reame shuddered, thinking that if he’d taken a second longer to react, Shaw would have hit the deck at lightning speed. The kid really had to stop thinking he was a superhero. Or Reame had to keep his concentration around pretty women.

Not something he generally had a problem with.

Women liked him and he liked women, when he had time for them. He usually didn’t; running and growing a business took all his energy and what little free time he did have that wasn’t spent at work or with his friends—particularly the Ballantynes—was taken up by his demanding sisters and slightly neurotic mother.

But his me-time was finally here. His business was established enough and his staff competent enough for him to step back a fraction, freeing up some precious spare time. His family was also, for all intents and purposes, off his hands. For ten years, since his father had decided to go AWOL after twenty-five years of marriage, he wasn’t his mother’s and sisters’ sounding board, their bank manager, the payer of bills. His youngest sister was starting a new job next week and that meant, thank God, he was free of being responsible for her.

In two weeks his mom would take a three-month cruise with his aunt and he would be free of what his mom called her “little problems.” Since Reame was the only one of her children close by, she tended to call him. A lot. She also wasn’t averse to guilting him into visiting, and when that didn’t work, she made up little stories about her health or problems with her house to bring him running.

Those two weeks and freedom couldn’t come soon enough. He was going to party hard and date wild women, women who knew the score, who wanted nothing more than a good time. He was going to sow all the wild oats he’d been storing up over the past ten years and he was going to sow them hard and sow them well.

The thought that he might be wanting wild because he was avoiding love and commitment jumped into his head. He was self-aware enough to realize that his quest for me-time went deeper than a simple desire to walk on the wild side. He prided himself on being responsible and part of that responsibility was not subjecting any woman to the chance that he might, like his dad, fail at a relationship, at being what a woman wanted, or needed. He’d never failed in his life and he didn’t intend to start now.

Deeper reasons or not, he damn well deserved to live life hard and fast, responsible only for himself. His motivations could wait until he worked this restlessness out of his system.

Approaching the baseball center, Reame decided that he could start tonight, if he was so inclined. After he dropped Shaw off with Tate, he could go out, do something. Reame shook his head, thinking that he didn’t feel like hitting a bar and spinning a line. He’d joined a dating app a few months back and maybe it was time he actually put it to its full use. New York was a big city and, in the little free time he had, he trawled through the photos, swiping right when he found someone he found attractive. He’d had a couple of quick conversations with a few women but hadn’t made any firm plans with anyone to meet in real life.

That brown-eyed blonde was hot and there was that psychologist who intrigued him more than most. He tried to remember what she looked like but Lachlyn Latimore’s face jumped onto the big screen of his mind.

Dating Linc’s new sister wasn’t an option for a hundred and ten reasons. Not constructive thinking, dude, not constructive at all. Frustrated with himself, Reame decided to work and, as per usual, he promised himself that in the morning he’d make it a priority to find himself a date.

Reame pulled open the door to the baseball center and looked down when Shaw tugged his coat. “You really aren’t listening to me, Unca Reame.”

Reame winced. He hadn’t heard a word Shaw had said. “Sorry, bud, what’s up?”

Shaw reached inside his jacket and Reame saw a scaly tail, tiny feet and the pissed-off face of Spike, Shaw’s bearded dragon. “Spike’s going to want pizza when we’re done. Batting makes him hungry.”

Yeah, food wasn’t what he was hungry for. But if Lachlyn Ballantyne offered to eat pizza with him, preferably naked, he was sure he could force down a slice or two.

Two

Back at The Den, which was situated a block or so from Central Park, Lachlyn was being guided by Linc down the hall to a set of stairs leading to a great room on the ground floor. A small picture on the wall to her left caught her eye and she sucked in a quick gasp. That couldn’t possibly be a Picasso, could it? They walked past a nineteenth-century drop-leaf table, every inch of its highly polished surface covered with heavy silver frames containing photos of the current members of the Ballantyne family. Lachlyn hauled in a breath, trying to get some air to her too-tight lungs.

Up until her fifteenth birthday, being a normal girl—being part of a normal American family—had been her deepest desire, the one thing she wished for above all else. Living with an emotionally checked-out mother and an older brother who’d been forced to work to help supplement their mom’s meager income, she’d grown up mostly alone. Lachlyn had comforted herself by imagining another life, cutting out pictures of wholesome, happy families from magazines and carefully pasting them into scrapbooks. She’d covered the walls of her shoebox bedroom, naming her pretend brothers and sisters and weaving fantasies about midnight snack parties, days at the beach, family arguments and Sunday lunches.

She’d made scrapbooks filled with smart and witty friends, fantasy boyfriends and carefully cut out pictures of men who looked like they’d gallop into her life and rescue her.

Then, one summer’s night, her illusions about family, about the bonds that tied people together, had been shattered. Lachlyn’s crash with reality had been brutal—she’d ripped the pictures from her wall, shredded her scrapbooks. What was the point, she’d decided, of living in a dream world? Lachlyn had finally accepted that she was alone, that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, expect anyone—not family, not a friend, not a lover—to run to her rescue, to be there to support her when her world fell apart. She was the only person she could rely on, would rely on. She’d decided, then and there, not to ask, or expect, anything from anyone ever again.

She’d been young but she’d made the right choice and she still lived her life around that decision. Few friends, no boyfriends, some contact with her brother. But damn, those photos made her feel just the teeniest bit envious.

“Are you okay, Lachlyn?” Linc asked. “You look a little pale.”

She wasn’t used to fancy houses containing amazing artwork, she’d just met the first man who’d ever managed to set her skin on fire and she had no idea of the agenda of this upcoming meeting with the Ballantynes. Was it any surprise that she felt a little, well, stressed?

Lachlyn stopped and half turned to look at him. She wanted to say something smart or charming but she saw sympathy in his eyes. She wanted to tell him that she was feeling overwhelmed, by who the Ballantynes were and the fact that there were so many of them. But it had been a long time since Lachlyn had confided in anyone about how she was feeling. “I’m fine.”

Linc’s gentle smile suggested that he didn’t believe her and Lachlyn realized how very good-looking he was. Actually, all the siblings looked like they could grace magazine covers and, if she wasn’t mistaken, they all had at one time or the other. Sexy, educated, talented and successful, the Ballantynes were the American dream personified. Yet Lachlyn, the only person who carried Connor Ballantyne’s direct DNA, was anything but.

“I understand that this is a lot to deal with, Lachlyn,” Linc said, his deep voice reassuring. “For that reason, it’s just us tonight, the siblings. You, me, Jaeger, Beck and Sage.”

Four against one...

One meeting, a discussion, and she would be done with them, Lachlyn thought, walking into a great room that rolled from a gourmet kitchen into a dining area and then a messy, lived-in space filled with comfortable furniture, books and toys.

Jaeger and Beck stood up and both shook her hand. Sage sent her a hesitant smile from the corner of the huge couch, her feet tucked under her bottom. Her face looked drawn and she had purple stripes under her eyes. Man trouble, Lachlyn decided. And the man causing the trouble was her brother Tyce.

Cue another awkward moment, but she couldn’t ignore Sage’s pain so she stopped next to Sage, bent down and touched her arm with the very tips of her fingers. “Is everything okay? The baby?”

Sage nodded and Lachlyn noticed that Sage’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “The baby is fine but your brother is driving me mad,” Sage told her, trying to sound jaunty but failing miserably.

Lachlyn wanted to tell Sage that Tyce was a product of their past, of a family that had no idea how to do family. Or relationships.

“I’m sorry, Sage,” Lachlyn murmured, feeling obligated to apologize. Latimores sucked at relationships in general; she needed her solitude and Tyce had his own hang-ups. She and Tyce were masters of the art of self-protection.

Jaeger waited for her to sit before handing her a glass of red wine and then resumed his seat between Sage and Beck on the big sofa. Linc sat down on the ottoman between her and Sage and took a long pull from the bottle of beer Jaeger had offered him. “So, let’s get to the heart of the matter of why you’re here,” Linc said.

Lachlyn placed her wine on the coffee table and clasped her hands together. Linc was going to offer her a payoff, a lump sum of money to go away, to fade into anonymity. They would buy back the Ballantyne International shares Tyce had bought for her and they would squash the reports surfacing in the press about her parentage and connection to the family.

All would go back to being normal. She couldn’t wait. People exhausted her.

“We had a discussion about you, about your arrival in our life and what that meant to us,” Linc said, his eyes not leaving her face. “The past year has been one of phenomenal change...six months ago we were all single. Now we have life partners.”

Jaeger flashed his pirate’s grin. “A hell of a lot of babies on the way. Piper, Cady, Sage...”

“Some by blood, all by love,” Beck murmured. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Linc, who instantly shook his head.

“We have a five-year-old bandit and an eighteen-month-old bandit-in-training,” Linc retorted, answering the unspoken question. “We’ve got all we can handle at the moment.”

Lachlyn shook her head, trying to keep up with their banter. She hoped pregnancy wasn’t contagious. Oh, wait, you had to have sex to get pregnant. Just then the image of a pair of grape-green eyes in a tanned face appeared in her mind. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen...ever.

“It would be a manageable three but Jaeger had to be his usual obnoxious self and one up the rest of us by impregnating Piper with twin boys,” Beck muttered, hooking his thick arm around Jaeger’s neck and pulling it tight.

While Lachlyn enjoyed Jaeger and Beck’s banter, she just wished Linc would get on with his little speech. There was more to come and Lachlyn preferred quick and nasty to kind and drawn out.

“Let’s get back to why we are here,” Sage suggested and Lachlyn smiled her appreciation. She’d listen, finish her wine, refuse their payoff and leave...

Linc pushed his hand through his hair. “When Tyce told us that you were Connor’s daughter we were shocked, Lachlyn. Connor, as you know, died a few years ago but he suffered from Alzheimer’s so even if he was alive, we couldn’t ask him. But DNA doesn’t lie and you are part of this family.”

Wait, that didn’t sound like a brush-off...

Linc continued. “If Connor knew about you, you would’ve been raised by him, of that we have no doubt. Connor was anti-marriage and commitment but he was not anti-responsibility and he adored us, kids who weren’t his kids. He would’ve loved you.”

Lachlyn wanted to ask Linc to back up, to repeat what she thought she’d heard. They considered her to be a part of this family, a Ballantyne? They wanted her to stay in the fold? What? She wasn’t part of this family, she didn’t want to be!

“And, as Connor’s child, we believe it’s only fair that you receive a portion of his estate.”

They weren’t offering to pay her off but were offering her more. Lachlyn pushed the words up her tight throat and through her bloodless lips. “A portion?”

Linc leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs and his beer bottle dangling from his fingers. “As siblings, we own many joint assets and we want to share ownership of those assets with you.”

“Assets?”

Linc nodded to a file on the coffee table. “Shares, art, property, gemstones. They are all listed in there. We’ve also agreed to each pay you a fixed amount from our personal bank accounts to reduce the cash disparity between us.”

“Uh...how much?” Lachlyn asked, her thoughts reeling.

Linc’s eyes cooled and Lachlyn knew that he was disappointed by her response. It did sound grasping and gold-digger-ish but she needed to know the amount of money they were talking about, how serious they were. Ten, twenty thousand?

“We thought we’d start with ten million each but that could be negotiated.”

Ten? Million? Forty million in total? Whoa...!

Lachlyn placed her head between her knees as the air in the room disappeared. She’d been expecting a brush-off, a couple of thousand to go away, and they were offering her tens of millions. Most frightening of all, they were asking her to stay. They wanted her to be a Ballantyne...

No, that wasn’t possible. She didn’t do people, relationships, family...

Lachlyn felt Sage perch on the arm of her chair, a small hand landing on her curved back. “Honey, are you okay?”

Lachlyn shook her head. “No,” she muttered.

“You’ll get used to the idea,” Sage said, her hand rubbing the length of her spine. “After a while you realize that it’s just money, just another tool.”

Lachlyn’s eyes widened and she held herself still. Oh, God, they thought that she was freaking about the money? Yeah, it was king’s ransom but...so what? No, they had it all wrong. It wasn’t the financial side that scared her, it was their offer to include her as a part of a family, their family. She was a loner, someone who was comfortable on her own, who liked living her life solo. She didn’t do family...hell, she barely did friends!

But God, forty million dollars. How did one just dismiss that much money? Lachlyn looked inside herself and realized that she could, easily. She didn’t need wealth, she needed emotional security, and keeping her distance from people, family and men, gave her what she needed.

It was a hell of a generous offer and she couldn’t just toss it back in their faces. Lachlyn started to speak but Beck held up his hand.

“As you might be aware, the press has cottoned on to your connection to us and we’re predicting a lot of media attention,” Beck said, looking grave. “And when I say a lot, I mean a firestorm.”

Damn, just what she needed. Four sets of eyes rested on her face and Lachlyn knew that they were waiting for a reply to their offer, some sort of indication of what she was thinking. All she knew for sure was that it was all a little too much and far too soon. She didn’t know them and they sure as hell didn’t know her. They all needed time before some massive decisions were made that could, and would, have huge ramifications.

Lachlyn lifted her head and sat up straight. She looked each of the Ballantyne men in the eye before sending Sage the same determined look. She took a sip of her wine and stood up, begging her knees to lock. “I very much appreciate the offer but I’d like to suggest that we not make any major decisions, especially financial ones, yet.”

Linc exchanged a long look with his siblings and Lachlyn sensed that she’d somehow passed a test, that their approval of her was climbing.

“I came here,” Lachlyn said, sounding hesitant, “thinking that I would have a drink and then go back to my life, my very normal, solitary life. However, hearing about the impending press attention changes that. I can’t ignore the impact this will have and I can’t just walk away. Nor can I accept your very generous offer.”

“Do you think that there’s a chance that you might be able to one day?” Sage asked.

“I don’t know,” Lachlyn said, standing up. “I need to think. And I need to go.”

Too much information, too many people. She had to leave, get out, find a quiet spot where she could make sense of this crazy turn her life had taken. Lachlyn, needing air and needing to get away, snatched up her bag and ran.

* * *

The news that Lachlyn Latimore was Connor Ballantyne’s daughter had not generated the firestorm of attention Beck had predicted. It was far worse than that, Lachlyn decided. She could only describe the constant media presence as the love child of a swarm of locusts and the apocalypse. Because every word she uttered was dissected and every step she took was monitored, Lachlyn agreed to take a two-week vacation from her job as an archivist at the New York Public Library, hoping that the furor would soon subside. She also, reluctantly, agreed to move into The Den because journalists and photographers blocked both entrances to her apartment in Woodside.

To a woman who craved solitude and privacy, Lachlyn felt like she was under siege and that there was no end in sight. She was, mentally and physically, about to jump out of her skin.

It was Cady, Beck’s wife and Ballantyne’s PR guru who finally persuaded her that it wasn’t in her interest to hide from the press—the sooner she gave them the access they wanted, the quicker the attention would die down and life would return to normal. Well, a new type of normal. Cady suggested a photo shoot, interviews with Ballantyne-friendly journalists, and a live spot on morning TV watched by—eeek!—millions, along with other magazine and print interviews.

Lachlyn said no to everything and prayed that some celebrity would do something truly shocking to draw attention away from her. Sage provided some distraction by accepting Tyce’s proposal and their engagement was an excellent excuse for a ball. It was also the perfect vehicle, Cady decided, for the Ballantynes to introduce Lachlyn to their friends and business associates. And that was the only reason Lachlyn was standing in the fantastic ballroom of the iconic Forrester Hotel, dressed in an on-loan-from-Sage designer cocktail dress that cost more than she earned a year, making small talk with people who were sometimes sweet, sometimes rude, and always curious.

It was a shark tank, Lachlyn thought, taking a tiny sip of her now flat champagne. And she was the minnow trying not to be a snack.

“Are you okay?”

Lachlyn felt fingers on her elbow and turned around to see Sage. Sage glowed from the inside out, her blue eyes luminous with happiness. Her brother’s declaration of love had done that, Lachlyn thought, proud of her sibling. Tyce had taken a chance on love and looked as happy as Sage did.

Brave Tyce.

Sage’s inquiring eyebrow reminded her that she’d been asked a question. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you thoroughly sick of everyone asking the same questions?” Sage tilted her head to the side, her bright blue eyes frank.

Lachlyn pulled a face and nodded her agreement. Sage took her half-empty glass from her hand, half turned and nodded to a large ornamental lemon tree in the corner. “You look like you need a break.”

“I really do,” Lachlyn agreed. She was thoroughly peopled out.

“Behind that lemon tree is a small spiral staircase. It leads up to a small, secluded balcony with a great view of the ballroom. It’s not big enough for any illicit shenanigans so nobody goes up there, but it’s a great place to hang out for a little while and get your breath back.”

Lachlyn looked up and she could see a tiny Juliet balcony, partially obscured by a wrought-iron trellis. Yes, that was exactly where she needed to be, for an hour or three. For the rest of the night if she got really, really lucky. Then Lachlyn remembered that she was one of the reasons for the ball and frowned. “Are you sure it will be okay?”

“Just go, Lachlyn, because Old Mrs. Preston is heading in your direction and she’s wearing her ‘I’ll harangue the truth out of her’ expression. I’ll head her off while you make your escape.”

Lachlyn flashed her a quick smile. “Thanks, Sage.”

“Sure.” Sage returned the smile and moved to intercept the super-thin, super-Botoxed specimen heading in her direction. Lachlyn skirted two men in tuxedos who looked like they wanted to talk to her, ignored the call for her attention and headed for the waiter standing near the hidden staircase. She picked up a fresh glass of champagne and ducked up the spiral staircase, holding her floor-length chiffon dress off the stairs. She stepped onto the small balcony and rested her back against the wall. A little peace, finally.

Needing to mentally escape, her thoughts drifted to the collection she was in the process of archiving for the New York Public Library. The grandson of a noted French art collector and critic had recently bequeathed his grandfather’s entire collection of diaries, letters, art and mementoes detailing the Parisian art world of the 1920s. It was a fascinating look back into the glamorous era between the two World Wars and the project of a lifetime.

She couldn’t wait for her two weeks’ vacation to be over so that she could get back to work, to her quiet, empty-of-people apartment. Hearing shouts of laughter, Lachlyn looked through the trellis onto the ballroom below. She took in the exquisite gowns and breathtaking jewelry, carefully made-up faces and sophisticated conversation. A jazz band played in the corner and a few couples were on the dance floor, swaying to the 1940s ballad.

Lachlyn’s eyes drifted over faces, easily finding her brother Tyce, his arms wrapped around Sage’s baby bump. Tyce couldn’t understand her need to hold the Ballantynes—and the world—at an arm’s length. However, their agreement that she deal with the Ballantynes on her own terms was holding. Just.

Tyce didn’t realize that Lachlyn was perfectly fine on her own, that he needed this amazing family, a great love affair, more than she did. She hadn’t told him, or anybody, what happened that summer so long ago...

She didn’t need to try hard to remember the sour smell of his breath on her face, the taste of his slimy tongue, the feel of his rough hands inside her shirt, between her legs. She’d yelled and screamed but her mom—thanks to depression, sleeping pills or, most likely, disinterest—hadn’t lifted her head to help her. Before the assault had turned from horrible to devastating, Lachlyn’s elbow had connected with her assailant’s nose. She’d followed that up with a knee to his scrotum and he’d scuttled off. She’d sat on the floor of her bedroom, weeping and alone. As a result, asking for any type of support or help, emotional or physical, transported her back to feeling like a helpless little girl, and that was something she never wanted to be seen as. Yeah, it also stopped her from making friends, from having normal relationships with normal men, but that was a small price to pay.

Sometimes, in the early, honest hours of the morning, she suspected that she still might be that girl who didn’t want to do it on her own, who might want a man, a family...that she might want to, sometimes, lean. What stopped her from exploring that terrifying scenario was remembering the past, the experience of looking for support—asking for help—and finding no one there.

No, she was better off alone.

Lachlyn felt the change in atmosphere and she stepped up to the trellis, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Yep, and there he was, the alpha-est of alphas. Lachlyn took a sip of her cool champagne, enjoying the way it replaced the moisture in her mouth. She’d only met Reame Jepsen twice, the first time at The Den and she’d had another brief encounter with him at the art gallery when Tyce proposed to Sage. But despite not spending more than ten minutes in total with the blasted man, she was irritated that he was the star of some of her very sexy dreams.

Like most alpha males, Reame was big, six foot three, six four? Lachlyn’s fingers curled around the trellis as she watched him move across the ballroom. Greeting someone she knew was important, Reame gripped the other man’s hand, flashing a practiced smile. Mr. Important dipped his head, a clear indication that he was submitting to the alpha male. Reame stepped into the group Mr. Important was standing with, and all four men, two CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, an investment banker and a world renowned economist, took a tiny step back. Reame Jepsen dominated the space, claiming it as his own. He was the super-alpha in a room of men who were accustomed to calling the shots and taking charge.

Lachlyn released a long sigh. Reame Jepsen bothered her.

No, he bothered the hell out of her.

And here came the moths to the flame, Lachlyn thought, amused. A tall, thin blonde spun around from the next group, squealed and all but threw herself into Reame’s arms. Cheeks were kissed before the blonde was elbowed out of the way by a redhead, then a brunette. She supposed it was business as usual for Reame. With his caramel-colored hair, olive skin, masculine face and light eyes, he made female eyes water, ovaries quiver and brains start to churn. Linc’s best friend, or so she’d heard, was the most eligible bachelor since Connor Ballantyne, and that list had included, up until very recently, her very hot and rich brothers.

He was a catch, a prize, a goal.

Lachlyn wasn’t a game-playing girl.

She was about to turn away, about to pull her eyes off his angles-and-planes face when his head shot up and their eyes clashed and held. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, his light eyes not leaving her face, ignoring the woman hanging off his arm. Lachlyn stared down at him as the air between them fizzled and crackled.

She wanted him.

She was pulsing with lust, attraction, desire, need. Hot, spiky lust. Her womb was as tight as a drum and her lungs had lost their ability to breathe. Lachlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, goose bumps lifting the skin on her arms. The thought of that sexy mouth on hers, what it would feel like, how he would taste—whiskey, mint, man—drowned out rational thought. The fantasy of her dress up to her waist, his hands on the back of her thighs, her back against the wall as he slid into her was as strong as a memory from yesterday, as powerful as reality.

She understood why. He was the biggest, most powerful, highest-ranking man in the room and millions of years of biology had programmed her, and every other woman there, to want to mate with all that strength and power. Mating with him would ensure her offspring would be given the strongest chance of survival, the best genes. Her attraction to him was pure animal instinct and nothing to cause her any concern.

But Lachlyn didn’t date alpha males. Hell, she didn’t date at all. It would be easy to chalk it up to what happened to her so long ago, but Lachlyn refused to give that rapist-in-training that much control over her sex life.

Sex wasn’t the problem, that much she knew. No, thanks to her mom’s disinterest, her lack of response, her fears had taken on a different form. Lachlyn refused to ask for anything, to give up even a small measure of her independence, to make space in her life for a man, to allow herself to ask for anything, even his company.

Men liked to feel needed and Lachlyn refused to need anyone ever again. Stalemate.

Lachlyn shook her dark thoughts away, refocusing on The Alpha Male’s face. She could appreciate him for what he was, a fine specimen, and her response to him was normal, natural even. Looking at him was like looking at a Botticelli painting or a Rodin sculpture...she could admire him, appreciate his masculine beauty, but unlike art, there was a personality behind it, quite a forceful one if she read him right. He was tough and strong—someone people relied on. He would expect his woman, his mate, to allow him to protect her, to shelter her, to slay her dragons.

Lachlyn had expected the person who should love her the most to help her slay a dragon once and she’d been left to do it herself. Luckily, she’d won the battle, but she’d never put herself in the position of allowing anyone to disappoint her again.

Three

No.

Hell to the no!

Reame took a hefty sip of his whiskey, disengaged himself from the female octopus hanging off him and wished he could be rid of the panic crawling up his throat as easily. Pushing a hand through his short hair, he looked around and saw Linc across the room. Linc caught his eyes and lifted one sandy eyebrow in a silent but demanding What the hell is wrong with you?

Reame was pretty sure that Linc did not want to hear that he had just had the hottest video of the newbie Ballantyne playing in his head, her head tipped back, her tangerine-colored evening dress—sporting a low dipping neckline hinting at great breasts and a thigh split that made for easy access—up around her waist and the soft material flowing over his black suit as he stood between her legs, his mouth on hers, his...

Yeah, don’t go there, Jepsen, unless you want to embarrass yourself.

He was damn sure that Linc didn’t want to know any of that.

Reame ordered another whiskey from a passing waiter and glanced up to the Juliet balcony, spotting the swish of the orange dress, the flash of a pale neck. He frowned, noticing that the new Ballantyne had cut her hair, that her waist-length, platinum-blond hank of hair was gone. Dammit, he’d had fantasies about winding that hair a couple of times around his fist as he slid into her, those long strands sliding over his stomach, over his...

Reame aimed a mental roundhouse kick at his temple. Lachlyn was not a wild woman and she was not anyone he could tangle with. She was his oldest friend’s new sister and you didn’t fool around with your best bud’s baby sister. Lachlyn was also Connor’s daughter and he owed Connor so much—without him he wouldn’t have his business. And he definitely didn’t mess around with women with eyes that were a curious combination of lapis lazuli, vulnerability and sky-high intelligence.

Lachlyn Latimore was Trouble with a capital T and if he was as smart as they said he was, he’d stay far, far away from her. She wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t the here now, gone tomorrow woman he was looking for.

“Stop scowling,” Linc said. “You’re scaring my guests.”

“Wasn’t.”

Reame cursed silently as Linc gestured for Lachlyn to join them. Reame saw her send a quick look toward the exit, as if she were judging how quickly she could escape. Her shoulders slumped as she started to make her way toward them through the crowd, and Reame couldn’t decide whether to feel insulted or to sympathize.

Linc picked up Reame’s whiskey off a tray and appropriated the drink as his own. Reame tossed him a hot insult and considered wrestling the glass out of his hand. Deciding to be an adult, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and ordered another drink. Hopefully, it would arrive soon.

“Why the frown?” Linc asked.

Reame shrugged, deliberately not meeting Linc’s gaze. “You know how much I loathe these society events. I’d rather be in a firefight than here.”

Linc smiled. “I know and I appreciate your sacrifice.”

Reame narrowed his eyes at Linc’s gentle sarcasm. Turning his back to his approaching fantasy-come-to-life, he spread his legs wide and folded his arms across his chest. He studied Linc and saw the worry in his eyes, the tense muscle in his jaw. “What do you need, bro?”

Before he could reply, Lachlyn stepped up to Linc’s side and sent Reame a cool look. “Hello, Reame.”

“Lachlyn,” Reame replied with equal ice. Look at them, he thought, pretending that they hadn’t just imagined each other naked and writhing five minutes earlier. “You look nice.”

If nice meant sensationally and spectacularly sexy.

Those blues darkened to violet as a blush crossed her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Linc was just about to ask me something...” Reame turned back to Linc who tossed back the rest of his whiskey and then rolled the glass between the palms of his hands. Keeping his voice low so that he wasn’t overheard, Linc answered his question. “The reaction to the news that Lachlyn is a Ballantyne and that we have accepted her into the fold has been bigger and more intense than any of us, including Cady, expected. Lachlyn has moved into The Den, Reame, and for the last few days the press have camped on the sidewalk. None of us can get in and out of the house without being harassed. Lachlyn tried to go out yesterday and they nearly ripped her apart. She ran into the house looking like the hounds of hell were on her tail.”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Lachlyn interjected.

“Shh.” Reame hushed her, wanting Linc to continue. Before he could, Linc was distracted by an old lady with diamonds the size of quail eggs and wrinkles as deep as the Mariana Trench.

Linc turned his attention to the Grand dame and Lachlyn took the opportunity to launch her small elbow into his side. “Don’t you shush me!” she hissed.

“I wanted to hear what Linc was saying and you were interrupting him,” Reame replied, willing her eyes to flash violet again. “Maybe kissing you to shut you up would’ve worked better. Far more enjoyable...”

Yep, violet, with sparks of silver. “Are you drunk?”

Drunk on... Do not even complete that thought, Jepsen. What the hell is wrong with you? Reame’s thumb found the pulse point on her inside wrist and, yep, there it was, her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wing. His wasn’t far behind. He glanced at Linc, made sure he wasn’t listening before speaking. “I know that you were imagining us naked.”

Reame just managed to stop himself from lifting her hand to kiss the delicate skin under his fingers.

Lachlyn jerked her hand away. “Your illusions are insulting and annoying. And I need a drink.”

He could relate. “Bring me one? A double whiskey on the rocks?” Reame asked, his tone teasing. He wasn’t surprised when she rolled her eyes and flounced away from him, her compact and curvy body radiating annoyance.

Reame sighed. Not the way to make friends with the new Ballantyne...

But, dammit, even before he’d met her, she’d bothered him. Bother was now too small a word to use to describe how she made him feel...

And why—when there were at least thirty women here whom he could hit on, if he excluded the married ones and he so did—was he wanting to get up close, very close and very naked, with her? With his best friend’s new sister?

Screwed, he decided. If he didn’t get a grip he would be so screwed.

Reame lifted his eyebrows when Linc turned back to him having given the Lady of the Big Diamonds sufficient attention. “You were saying...”

Linc pushed a hand through his blond hair. “Someone dug up Lachlyn’s phone number and her phone has been ringing off the hook. She’s being harassed on social media and it doesn’t look to be dying down anytime soon.”

Reame nodded his understanding. “I’ll get my cyber guy to bury her social security number, to take her off the Net as much as possible. He’ll change her address to your box number and get her a new phone number under one of my companies. We’ll put firewalls around her social media accounts. You know the drill.”

Linc should. He and his guys had done the same thing for Connor and all the Ballantynes after him. High-profile families attracted criminals and nutcases, and sometimes the nutcases were criminals, too.

Reame waited, knowing that there was more. Linc scratched his chin, his eyes flat with worry. “Tate has to film in the Rockies this coming week and I was planning on joining her there with the kids.”

Somehow, Linc and Tate managed to combine his hectic and pressurized job as Ballantyne CEO with Tate’s job as a travel presenter without neglecting Shaw or Ellie, their adopted daughter.

“I don’t want to leave Lachlyn in The Den by herself but she adamantly refuses to move in with Sage and Tyce or with Jaeger or Beck.”

Since she’d be the third wheel wherever she went—all the Ballantynes were still in the cooing and billing stage of their relationship—Reame didn’t blame her.

“What’s her apartment like?” Reame asked.

“Small, I imagine,” Linc said.

“Would it be feasible for one of my female personal protection people to move in with her?” Reame asked.

“I don’t think so but what do I know? Lachlyn doesn’t talk!”

Reame knew that Lachlyn still hadn’t accepted their offer to become a full Ballantyne partner but in the eyes of the world she was assumed to be a very wealthy woman. As such, she was a target. Linc was right, she needed a bodyguard and to live in a place with excellent security.

And security was his business. “How does she feel about having security?”

Linc pulled a face. “She thinks I’m overreacting. She has this idea that she’ll be able to go back to work next week, that the furor will have died down by then. She’s dreaming if she thinks a haircut will make her look less recognizable.” Linc lifted his chin in Lachlyn’s direction and Reame finally, finally had an excuse to look at her again.

As he’d noticed earlier, her hair was now short and choppy. Her bangs twisted away from her face, revealing high cheekbones, those incredible sin-with-me-eyes, her made-to-be-kissed (but not by him) lips. Despite her two-inch heels, she still only reached his shoulder, and without her stilts she barely scraped five-two. Her body, despite her being a fairy, was all woman. Full and perky breasts, a waist he could span with his hands, long legs and round hips.

And a truly excellent ass.

“She needs protection, Ree.”

Reame groaned, wondering whom he had to kill to get another drink. He ignored the action in his pants and focused on business, on what Linc was asking him to do. He swallowed his sigh. If it was anyone else but Linc making the request, he’d decline the business. He didn’t have enough staff to meet the demand for personal protection officers as it was. Liam, his head of operations, was going to kill him. And Liam, being ex-military, as well, actually could follow up on his threat.

But this was Linc asking... “Let me call around tomorrow and have a chat with her, and you. What time are you leaving?”

“Midmorning,” Linc replied, briefly grasping Reame’s bicep in a show of his appreciation. “Thanks, bud. Will you please charge me or the firm? God knows we can afford it.”

Reame shook his head and, as he always did, ignored Linc’s request. After he left the military, Connor gave him his first job, had recommended him to his rich friends and clients and he’d lent him the capital to start up his security business. Together with Linc, Connor had been his biggest supporter and his best advertiser, and it was because of their support and loyalty that his company was now regarded to be the best in the city. His business had put his three sisters through college, paid for the fancy apartment he lived in, the repairs on his mom’s house. It employed many of his ex-army buddies and sent ridiculous amounts of money into his personal bank account.

For as long as he owned Jepsen & Associates, he would swallow any costs the Ballantynes’ personal security needs generated.

He owed Linc, his brothers and Connor a debt he couldn’t repay but he’d sure as hell try. Because, unlike his father, he believed in loyalty and responsibility.

He looked at life straight on, readily accepting that it was a series of waves and troughs, shallow waters and depths. All one could do was just keep swimming.

Reame looked across the room at Lachlyn and studied her exquisite profile, the horrible thought occurring to him that she might be the one woman who could make him drown.

* * *

The next morning, Lachlyn glanced down at the screen of her phone, thinking it was another call from a super-pushy reporter, but instead she saw the familiar number of her supervisor at the New York Public Library. Annie was not only her direct boss but the closest person she had to an older sister and best friend.

“Hey, hun, how are you holding up?” Annie asked as Lachlyn placed her flat palm against the cool window of the small upstairs living room of The Den.

“Fair to horrible,” Lachlyn said, pulling the drape aside to look down at the sidewalk. The crowd standing behind the wrought-iron fence was talking amongst themselves, although many cameras were pointed toward the front door. Somebody caught her movement and, almost immediately, a dozen cameras lifted in her direction. Lachlyn abruptly stepped back and ignored the muted roars for a comment, a photo opportunity, an interview. Rubbing her forehead, she slid down the wall until an expensive Persian carpet was all that separated her denim-covered butt from the rich wooden floors. “I can’t wait to come back to work next week.”

There was a long pause and Lachlyn’s stomach jumped. Annie was usually incredibly voluble and she didn’t do silence. “That’s not going to happen anytime soon, Lach.”

Lachlyn felt her headache intensify. “What do you mean?”

“There’s too much attention around you, on you. The phones have been ringing off the hook, people asking anyone and everyone for information on you. It’s mayhem, Lach, and you aren’t even here.”

The monster chomping its way through her stomach took another huge bite. “What exactly are you saying, Annie?”

“My supervisor is suggesting that you take all of your vacation time. It adds up to about two months.” Annie said in a tone that suggested she’d been practicing how to break the news.

“I don’t have a job anymore?” Lachlyn whispered, terrified that what she was hearing was her new reality.

“You don’t have a job for the next few months. After that, we’ll see,” Annie said, trying to sound jaunty. “Since, according to the press, money is no longer an object, you could tour the great libraries of the world, visit the museums you always talk about going to, see the amazing art you look at in books,” Annie said, her voice turning persuasive. “This is an opportunity, Lach, not a punishment.”

But Annie didn’t understand that, while she didn’t mind being alone, she hated not being busy, not having a purpose. Having nothing to do reminded her of her childhood, of long days and nights without company or conversation, with only an old television set for entertainment. Her mother would come home from work, pop some sleeping tabs she bought from the guy on the corner and pass out for the next fourteen or sixteen hours. Tyce was always out, selling his art in the park so that they could pay one of the many bills her mom couldn’t cover. The local library had been her favorite place to hang out and books her constant and unfailing friends. These days she spent most of her time alone but her work kept her busy.

“Lachlyn? Lachlyn?”

Lachlyn forced herself to blink, concentrating on the cool floor beneath her hand, allowing the noise from the photographers to drift up to her. Then she saw that the display screen on her phone still showed that she was connected to Annie.

“I’ve got to go, Annie.”

“Look,” Annie said, “if your situation changes I can have another talk with Martin.” But Lachlyn heard her underlying frustration, her Why would you want to spend your days digging through old papers when you could be shopping and seeing the world, playing the role of the Park Avenue Princess?

Nobody realized that accepting the money was the easy part. It was just a couple more zeroes—okay, a lot more zeroes—in her bank account. She could take it or leave it, spend it or give it away. It was the people involved that made this difficult, the fact that this wasn’t just a matter of moving cash around. The family dynamic of who and what the Ballantynes were and stood for made this situation complicated. A cold hand squeezed her lungs together and she deliberately slowed her breathing down and released her grip on her phone, shaking her hand to put blood back into her fingers. A few months earlier, when Tyce had told her that he was making plans for her to meet her biological family she’d thought that she’d meet the Ballantynes, have a meal with them and that they’d all go back to their very different lives.

She never expected to be offered a fat bank account, a limitless credit card, to be moved into The Den and to be hounded by the press. The possibility of being accepted as part of the family never crossed her mind. She was touched by their actions, amazed at their generosity but underneath it all, she was running scared, bone-deep terrified. Beneath the fame and money, the Ballantynes were people, and people meant relationships.

She didn’t do relationships... How could she make them see that?

“Lachlyn?”

Lachlyn heard Reame’s low, deep voice and scrambled to her feet. She ducked her head and dashed her fingers against her cheeks, annoyed when she wiped away moisture. The last thing she needed was Reame to see her tears.

Lachlyn looked at the now empty doorway, looking for Linc. His presence would, hopefully, stop her from making an ass of herself with his best friend.

“Hi.” Lachlyn placed her shaking hands into the back pockets of her jeans and felt a hole in the corner of one of the pockets. She was wearing ragged jeans, a long-sleeve white T-shirt and banged-up sneakers, while Reame looked fantastic in his dark jeans, pale blue shirt and cream jacket. The royal blue pocket square was a nice touch. He pulled designer shades off the top of his head and tapped the glasses against his empty palm.

Reame managed a tight smile and his eyes skittered off hers. Huh. “Where’s Linc?” she asked, darting a hopeful look at the door he’d closed behind him.

“Shaw.”

Reame didn’t have to say any more; in the few days that she’d spent in The Den, there had been a few “Shaw” moments.

“Ah, enough said,” Lachlyn said, rocking on her heels.

Reame walked over to the window and, standing to the side, pulled back the drape so that he could see out without being photographed. “The crowd looks bigger than it was twenty minutes ago.”

“I just wish they would go away,” Lachlyn muttered. “I don’t understand why they are so interested in me.”

“You’re young, pretty and you’ve just won the family jackpot. You are news,” Reame said in a flat voice, his back still to her. “You’re a modern-day fairy tale playing out in front of their eyes.”

Reame turned around and gestured to the comfortable couch. “Take a seat. It’s a lot more comfortable than the floor.”

Since he noticed she’d been sitting on the cold floor, Lachlyn knew that there was no chance that he’d missed her red-rimmed eyes and her wobbly lip. Reame Jepsen, Lachlyn suspected, didn’t miss a damn thing.

Pride had her forcing her shoulders back, lifting her chin as she made her way to the couch and perched on the edge of the cushion.

Reame sat opposite her and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his legs, his hands dangling between his strong thighs. This morning, his eyes were a cool, light peppermint and, as always, invasive. She felt like he could see into her soul, read her thoughts. Lachlyn felt exposed and uncomfortable. God, she hoped that this conversation wouldn’t take long.

“Let’s talk security, specifically your security,” Reame said, his eyes cool and tone brusque.

Lachlyn forced herself to maintain eye contact and responded with a nod.

“Linc is concerned about you being on your own.”

“He doesn’t need to be. I’m used to being on my own.”

“If you were the ordinary woman you were a month ago, I’d agree.”

“But you’re not Lachlyn Latimore anymore, you’re now a Ballantyne—at least in the eyes of the press—and that changes the picture,” Reame continued, the warm waves of his voice rolling over her skin. “You’re the newest member of a very prominent, very interesting family. The residents of this city have grown up with the Ballantynes. They remember when Connor took in three orphans. They cheered when Connor adopted Linc alongside Jaeger, Beck and Sage. They mourned Connor’s death. The interest in the Ballantynes has never wavered and the fact that you are Connor’s daughter is big news. The Ballantynes pulling you into the family and sharing Connor’s wealth with you is huge news.”

“I’m not taking the money,” Lachlyn blurted out. For some reason she couldn’t articulate, it was important that he understand that she wasn’t a gold digger and that she had little interest in the Ballantyne fortune.

“You’re not?”

Lachlyn squeezed her hands between her thighs. “No.”

Lachlyn thought she caught a flash of surprise on his face but a second later his expression turned inscrutable. Linc lifted a big shoulder in a don’t care shrug. “That’s between you and them. I’m just here to talk about keeping you safe.”

Nothing in his body language, voice or eyes suggested that they’d shared a hot look across a crowded ballroom and that electricity had sizzled and sparked between them. He was all business, only business.

Good. Then why did she feel a tiny bit disappointed?

Linc sat up straight, leaned back and placed his ankle on his opposite knee. He tapped his finger on his thigh. “Linc also wants me to give you a PPO—”

That didn’t sound very nice. “A what?”

“A personal protection officer, a bodyguard,” he explained, sounding impatient. “You need a shield between you and the press. And any crazies.”

“Crazies?”

“There are eight million people in this city, most of whom have heard or read about you. More than a few are delusional and a handful might think of you as their new best friend, as a potential lover or something more sinister. Until the attention dies down, it’s wise to take precautions.”

Lachlyn tried to assimilate the barrage of information, to make sense of what he was saying. It didn’t help that every time she looked at him, she wondered what his lips would feel like on hers, whether his hands would be rough or smooth against her bare skin. God, she’d never looked at a man and felt her saliva dry up, her heart bang against her chest.

What was it about him that yanked her libido out of its coma?

Let’s think about that... Did it have anything to do with the fact that he was the sexiest man she’d met? Ever?

Frustrated with herself, frustrated in general, Lachlyn refocused. What were they discussing? Right, bodyguards.

Reame played with the laces on his trendy shoes. “So in order to give you the best protection, I need some information about you. Let’s start with the easy stuff, your job. You’re a librarian?”

Lachlyn shook her head. “I work as an archivist at the NYPL.”

A small smile touched Reame’s mouth and a butterfly in her stomach took flight, followed by another ten. “I love that building.”

The Beaux Arts building was her favorite place in the world. “I do, too.”

Reame kept his eyes locked on hers, penetrating and steady. “And do you like your work?”

“I love it. Libraries, books...documents make me hot.”

Reame’s eyes heated and turned speculative and Lachlyn cursed her choice of words. She’d opened the door and flat-out desire walked in and plonked itself between them, its smile mocking. “Uh... I...” Lachlyn stuttered.

Reame looked away from her and Lachlyn saw his chest rise and fall as he took a big breath. His expression was so inscrutable that she couldn’t tell if he was feeling the attraction too or whether he was just making an attempt to hide his irritation. So far, she’d seen nothing of the heat she’d seen in his eyes last night...maybe she’d just projected her attraction onto him. Because she was an emotional hermit, she was inexperienced with men so it was entirely possible.

“Let’s talk about your living arrangements. You live in Woodside?” Reame asked, smoothly changing the subject and ignoring her flaming face. God, she had all the poise and grace of a walrus.

Lachlyn thought about her bright, cheerful space packed full of books and sighed. “I live in a small apartment above a bakery.”

“And that’s where you would like to be?” Reame asked.

Lachlyn darted him a hopeful look. “Oh, God, yes! But Linc seems to think that’s not a good idea, that it’s too small and too far away.”

Reame didn’t look too concerned. “I’m in the business of making life easier for my clients, not my staff. My paramount concern is your safety.” In that statement Lachlyn saw the hard businessman, the tough commanding officer. She had no doubt that when Reame said hop, his people asked how far they should jump.

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