Clay
How far will a mother go to save her child? What will a man do to protect the woman he loves?Janna Kerr's eight-year-old daughter is dangerously ill and she knows her last hope is an unscrupulous doctor who–for the right price–will help her child. Secluded in a small cabin in the Louisiana bayou, Janna and Lainey wait for the summons. But when Clay Benedict shows up, an already desperate woman is pushed to the edge.Clay, whose powerful Louisiana family owns this land, was just checking on the place. He didn't expect to be drugged and held captive by a beautiful woman whose secret is revealed the moment he looks into her young daughter's eyes–Benedict eyes.The last thing Janna needs is this powerful man affecting her in ways her heart cannot allow. Because nothing is more important than saving her daughter–and Clay is getting too close to understanding the terrible risk she's willing to take. But in Louisiana, a man fights for what he wants….
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Down in Louisiana, they live the Southern way. Family is everything, and women are strong when they need to be and soft when they should be. And the best men are gentlemenâ¦.
Meet Jennifer Blakeâs LOUISIANA GENTLEMENâall cousins in the Benedict clan.
First there was KANE, also known as Sugar Kaneââcause heâs sweet as sinâ¦with all the consequences.
Then there was LUKE, who never met a damsel in distress he didnât stop to helpâwhether she wanted him to or not.
Even if he werenât sheriff, ROAN would be the man to call whenever there was trouble.
Now thereâs CLAYâthe Benedict whoâs always ready for anything. Good thing, too, since Janna Kerr and her daughter are about to make Clayâs life very interestingâ¦.
For Kathryn Seidick, aka romance author Kasey Michaels, with warm appreciation for sharing the trials and the triumph of her son Michaelâs fight against renal disease as told in her incredibly moving story âOr You Can Let Him Go.â And for all signers of organ donor cards, wherever in the world they may be, for they are the truest of heroes.
Contents
1
Clay Benedict was out cold, his large frame sprawled in boneless grace on the worn linoleum of the old campâs kitchen. Janna Kerr stared down at him with her hand pressed to her mouth while one part of her brain exalted in her success and the other stood appalled by it. She had him, had Clay Benedict, the one man in the whole world that was of any use to her. The thing was done. She had turned a possible disaster into certain triumph.
It seemed too easy. So few things in her life had been easy in recent years that it made her extremely nervous.
He appeared dead, but that wasnât possible. Surely it wasnât? Sheâd had no time for careful measurements, however, little time for anything except finding a way to prevent him from leaving. The sedative had taken forever to kick in, so long that sheâd begun to think feverishly of more desperate measures. There had been no need, after all. One moment heâd been sitting at the cheap wooden table, toying with his empty coffee cup, and the next he was toppling from his chair.
His head had hit the floor as he fell. Janna hadnât counted on that. Moving with slow care, she knelt at his side and put out her hand as if to touch him. Then she drew it back again, closing her fist so tightly that her short, neat nails dug into her palm.
What if he was playacting? What if his eyes snapped open and he grabbed her? She was strong from years of lifting and caring for her daughter Lainey, also from wringing out yards of water-soaked dye cloth and searching the woods and fields for dye plant specimens. Still, she didnât much care for her chances in a wrestling match with the man on the floor.
He was a superior specimen of the male animal if sheâd ever seen one, with whipcord muscles and the deeply tanned skin of an outdoorsman. His chest, under the blue T-shirt that matched his faded jeans, was broad and deep before it tapered into a flat waist and lean hips. Power marked his chiseled features and the firm line of his lips, though the impression was softened by the length of his lashes and the smile lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes. Even in a stupor, he appeared self-contained, invincible in his assurance of exactly who and what he was inside.
He was a Benedict. A Benedict of Turn-Coupe, Louisiana, with all the assurance verging on arrogance that went with the name.
Annoyance at the idea steeled Jannaâs nerves, and she reached out again to feel for the pulse in the side of his neck. The warmth of his skin was startling against her chilled fingers, and she could sense the faint prickle of his dark beard underneath it. It had been a long time since sheâd actually touched a man. The act felt so intimate that it was a second before she could concentrate on the vigorous and steady beat of his jugular. She counted it for a moment, then let out a sigh and sat back on her heels.
She had Clay Benedict, all right. But what in the name of heaven was she going to do with him now that she had him?
She wouldnât need to hold him long, a week, two at the outside. She had done so much already, made all the contacts, raised the money, moved Lainey and herself into this fishing camp in the back of the beyond. Getting hold of Clay Benedict had been a last, totally unexpected boon, the spun sugar icing on the cake. It was possible that it would make the whole thing perfect.
Absolutely everything was in place now. Soon it would be over, all over.
Sheâd had to improvise when Clay had arrived so unexpectedly at the camp an hour ago. Denise had asked him to check on Janna and her daughter, heâd said. It made sense when she remembered how close-knit the Benedict clan was, how they looked after each other and everything else in what they considered their ordained corner of the world, the Benedict community on Horseshoe Lake and its swamp. Then had come the bad moment when heâd shown too much interest in the photos of Lainey scattered over the table where Janna had been putting them into an album. She couldnât allow that, so had been forced to act on her half-formed impulse. Now it was beginning to seem that it was meant to be.
