All He Ever Wanted

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.”