Naughty Marietta
She looks like an angel, acts like a vixen and sings like an alley cat.Marietta Stone had big dreams–to sing opera, to be famous, to see the world. And if her rich gentleman benefactor was a tad overprotective, well, it was a small price to pay. She had a glorious future ahead.But it did not include being kidnapped by Cole Heflin, who seemed to be the only man on earth she couldn't wrap around her delicate finger. He was a ruthless, conniving scoundrel who'd literally been unstrung from the gallows and paid to bring her back to the one place she'd vowed never to set foot again–home.Cole had never met a woman he didn't like, nor one he wasn't happy to love. Until now. Sure, Marietta was a little wildcat who drove him crazy with desire, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing it. They had a lot of miles to cross on the way back to Texas, with her benefactor's hired gunmen on their trail and a dangerous frontier ahead. But the trip home was not nearly as dangerous as the temptation naughty Marietta inspired….
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At Marietta’s gentle touch, Cole felt a quick rush of sexual excitement. He brushed her hand away and turned his back on her.
“Sing some more, Marietta,” he said, knowing that her singing would quickly dampen his desire. “I do so like to hear you sing.”
“Really?” she asked, eyes shining.
“You have no idea,” he said as he picked up his chambray shirt.
Marietta was thrilled. Her singing had had the desired effect. She would use it as her chief tool to tempt him. And once she had seduced him, had given herself to him, he would surely fall in love with her. So much in love he would not force her to go to Galveston to her grandfather. He would take her wherever she wanted to go. And she wanted to go back to Central City and the opera!
Marietta inwardly shuddered at the prospect of allowing Cole to actually make love to her. She didn’t really know what to expect. Wasn’t sure she would know what she was supposed to do when the time came.
She was worried. But she had no other choice. If she was ever to be free of him, then she would have to let Cole make love to her. It would, she knew, be quite a sacrifice on her part.
But it would be worth it.
Also by Nan Ryan
THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
CHIEFTAIN
For seven of my favorite writers
who are also valued friends
Marsha Canham
Lori Copeland
Heather Graham
Virginia Henley
Kat Martin
Meryl Sawyer
Christina Skye
Contents
One
June 1872
Midnight in Galveston, Texas, a Southern coastal city still under the occupation of federal reconstruction troops seven long years after the end of the War Between the States.
A man who had given the ultimate for the Confederacy’s cause—his only son’s life—sat alone in the paneled library of his spacious seaside mansion. He was grimacing in agony, his teeth were clenched, his eyes closed.
Seventy-eight-year-old, wheelchair-bound, Maxwell Lacey—crippled in a fall from a horse years ago—was suffering. The increased dosage of laudanum failed to kill the pain. The disease that was slowly ravaging his frail body was incurable; he would not recover. Nor, he realized, would his passing be an easy, peaceful one.
The pain refused to go away. It was unbearable. He could stand it no longer. He would stand it no longer.
Maxwell Lacey opened his eyes, gripped the arms of his chair and anxiously wheeled himself across the room and around behind his massive mahogany desk. Grimacing in misery, he opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the old Colt revolver he had carried as a young man. Perspiration dotting his pale, drawn face, he calmly loaded the weapon, raised it and placed the cold steel barrel directly against his right temple.
His finger on the trigger, he glanced across the room. His watery eyes fell on the poster advertising Marietta’s starring role in her most recent opera. Maxwell Lacey swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision. Focusing on the diva, he gritted his teeth against the worsening pain and slowly lowered the revolver.
Shaking his gray head, he laid the weapon atop his desk. He folded his age-spotted hands together, placed them beneath his quivering chin and sat quietly for a long moment, staring fixedly at the poster. Lost in the mists of memory, he was tormented with anguish and regret.
He thought back over the years to when he was young and the mansion was filled with children’s sweet voices and his wife’s throaty laughter. Now the big house was silent and lonely, had been for a long, long time. All were dead: his son, Jacob, his daughter, Charlotte, his devoted wife, Annabelle.
Maxwell stared at the poster as tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. And he came to a decision. He would attempt to right some of the terrible wrong he had done.
Suddenly, for the first time in days, the pain eased.
Maxwell Lacey sat in the shadowy library of his opulent home all night, patiently waiting for the summer dawn. Come morning, he sent a servant to summon his attorney to the mansion.
Upon his arrival, Marcus Weathers was immediately shown into the library. Puzzled, the attorney stepped inside and greeted his client.
Turning his wheelchair around and without so much as a “good morning,” Maxwell instructed Weathers, “Draw up my last will and testament!”
The lawyer frowned, his eyebrows knitting. “You already have a will, Maxwell. Don’t you recall, you made it several years ago.”
