Winning Over the Brooding Billionaire, page 1
“I don’t need a nanny!”
Sam regarded his daughter for a moment.
They thought Shelby was a nanny!
“Of course you don’t,” Shelby said, earning her a look of reluctant interest from the child and a glance of grave annoyance from the man.
That wasn’t exactly I am not a nanny.
“You’re a city girl, aren’t you?” Sam asked. His voice had a gravelly tone to it that felt as if it was scraping across her skin. And not in an unpleasant way. Best not to let him know that!
“I prefer to think of myself as a woman,” Shelby said. Especially around him. Something extraordinarily adult was swirling in the air between them.
Sam Waters cocked his head at her. “Woman,” he said, his tone flat. “Noted.”
That was not exactly how she wanted him to notice her. “I’m from New York,” she said.
He nodded, as if this was not entirely unexpected, and not a good thing, either.
For some reason, the lines were blurring. It actually felt as if she had arrived here as a nanny, not looking to him to provide his ranch for a sixty-fifth birthday party.
Winning Over the Brooding Billionaire
Cara Colter
Cara Colter shares her home in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband of more than thirty years, an ancient crabby cat and several horses. She has three grown children and two grandsons.
Books by Cara Colter
Harlequin Romance
Cinderellas in the Palace
His Convenient Royal Bride
One Night with Her Brooding Bodyguard
Blossom and Bliss Weddings
Second Chance Hawaiian Honeymoon
Hawaiian Nights with the Best Man
Matchmaker and the Manhattan Millionaire
His Cinderella Next Door
The Wedding Planner’s Christmas Wish
Snowbound with the Prince
Bahamas Escape with the Best Man
Snowed In with the Billionaire
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Margo Louise Jakobsen
1948–2023
Beloved.
Praise for Cara Colter
“Ms. Colter’s writing style is one you will want to continue to read. Her descriptions place you there.... This story does have a HEA but leaves you wanting more.”
—Harlequin Junkie on His Convenient Royal Bride
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM CONSEQUENCE OF THEIR PARISIAN NIGHT BY MICHELE RENAE
CHAPTER ONE
SHELBY KANE SLAMMED on the brakes, and the tiny car skidded to a halt. For a moment frozen in time, the leaping deer was so close to her front windshield that she felt as if she could see each individual hair on its shoulder and stomach.
She closed her eyes, held her breath and braced herself.
Nothing happened.
She dared to open her eyes. The deer bounded away through tall grass the color of wheat, though it was spring. As she watched, the animal—with the same graceful effortlessness with which it had cleared her car—sailed over a barbed wire fence. It paused and looked back at her, eyes liquid, soft, deeply brown. One ear twitched and then it trotted off, winding its way through a herd of fat, oblivious cattle.
She had never been so close to a wild animal. The truth was, despite the extraordinary beauty of the deer, she hoped she never would be again. The experience had been an unwanted challenge to her decidedly new driving skills.
Her heart still racing, Shelby got out of the car, leaned on the fender and drew in deep breaths of sun-on-grass-scented air.
She took in her surroundings with a mix of awe and trepidation. She had never been this close to a real live cow before, either. The humongous creatures, separated from her by only the thin wires of that fence, seemed, thankfully, disinterested in her.
She was in the Foothills Country of Southern Alberta. Nothing could have prepared her for the immensity of the land, the endless sweep of the grass and the undulating hills that looked as if they were covered in suede. The Rocky Mountains, brilliant against an endless blue sky, loomed in the near distance, peaks craggy and snowcapped.
Though it seemed impossible, the mountains appeared to be the same distance away as when Shelby had started down the numbered range road. When her GPS, at the turnoff from the main highway, had instructed her to go sixteen kilometers—a measure that, as an American, she was not totally familiar with—she had thought it would put her right in those mountains.
She had pictured herself, white-knuckled, on a narrow, winding road that had unforgiving rock on one side and steep, water-gushing ravines on the other. The Mountain Waters Ranch was her destination, after all.
But no, many flat, straight kilometers later along the dusty gravel road, she seemed no closer to the mountains, and certainly there was no ranch in sight.
She was a city girl, through and through, most recently calling New York home. Though her past lifestyle had allowed her to experience more wonders in the world than most people could even dream of, she had never experienced anything like this.
Rugged beauty.
Endless space.
And an almost terrifying sense of acute aloneness.
Where was the nearest person?
Taking one last look around, Shelby got back in the car. Her GPS told her she had only traveled ten of the sixteen kilometers.
She was somewhat grateful she’d opted for the GPS feature in the rental, instead of a bigger vehicle, though at the same time, she was so aware that her new life required her to weigh such choices: bigger car or GPS. The tiny economy car may have fit her admittedly limited budget, but it certainly did not align with the first impression she wanted to make.
She glanced down at her clothes. She’d chosen a classic tailored pair of dark teal slacks and a matching jacket, with a colorful silk blouse underneath. All were designer, as were the shoes, a three-inch spike heel that might not be exactly appropriate for a ranch—or for driving, come to that—but that boosted her five-foot-four height to five-foot-seven in a way that had proved irresistible. A practiced eye would know her clothing choices were not on trend anymore, but how practiced an eye would anyone have who lived on a ranch?
Speaking of first impressions, she adjusted the rearview mirror and took stock of the things she could control.
Her hair, while no longer colored and cut to perfection by Frederique’s on Fifth, remained one of her best features. It was naturally honey-colored, and fell in a thick and shiny wave to her shoulders. Looking at it critically, Shelby was pleased with the result she had achieved herself with a blow-dryer and a curling iron. She even wondered if the extraordinarily expensive Frederique had ever actually improved it.
Her eyes, brown flecked with gold and green, still looked wide and startled from her encounter with the deer. Her lashes looked luxuriously thick, and she allowed herself to be newly amazed at how mascara that fit her budget seemed to do just as good a job as the fifty-dollar Epais brand she had preferred in the past. Ditto for her budget lip gloss.
Budget, she thought, not without a familiar surge of astonishment, as she put the mirror back the way it had been and started the car.
As the only child of billionaire business mogul Boswell Kane, Shelby had been raised breathing the rarefied air of the extraordinarily wealthy. She had grown up in family homes all over the world—Paris, Lisbon, London, George Town, Los Angeles, New York—though family and home would not be accurate descriptions of any of those houses. Each was a mansion, with multiple pools and media rooms, staff quarters and manicured grounds. Each missed the “hominess” mark by about a million miles.
Her mother, Jasmine, had died when Shelby was ten, and even at that young age, She had recognized her father was in some way trying to make it up to her. Her every whim was indulged. There was not a single thing she had ever wanted for.
Shelby had lived the lifestyle of the rich and famous that everyone dreamed of: private jets, fashion events, exclusive designers, spas, parties. She had skied the Alps and scuba dived the Great Barrier Reef. She had been on photo safari in Africa. She had dined with royalty and been backstage with the most well-known bands in the world. She had been to the Oscars and the final game of the World Series.
Had she even appreciated what she’d had when she’d had it, though? Because despite “having it all,” there had always been a restless sense of something missing.
Until she had fallen into an opportunity. Her friend Kylie had become engaged and was endlessly debating the perfect venue for the wedding.
Shelby happened to know someone with a villa in France. She’d put the two parties in touch and then, because she’d attended so many exclusive events, she had acted as an adviser on details like menu and decor and accommodations for the guests. It had been fun in a very different way than other things in her life had been fun. That restless sense of something missing had been held at bay for the entire time she’d been involved in Kylie’s wedding.
The wedding had turned out so well that soon another friend had asked for Shelby’s help with an event.
And so her company Eventually had been born. Despite the fact getting the first check for money she had actually earned had been more heady than the very expensive champagne served at Kylie’s wedding, Shelby was aware her company was really nothing more than a fun little hobby. Still, that didn’t stop her from thinking about it. A lot. When she wasn’t dabbling in actual event planning, she was collecting a growing portfolio of perfect locations.
Each time she collected a picture and information on a new potential location, she would have a wonderful, dreamy sense of exactly the kind of event that belonged there.
And then, into her life had come a wicked stepmother. Though Shelby still hated to admit this, it might have been one of those blessings in disguise.
Lydia Barkley was not like the kind of women Shelby’s father, Boswell, usually dated. His taste usually ran to women, admittedly like Shelby’s own mother, who were coiffed, sophisticated, fit society women—or cleverly disguised wannabes.
No, Lydia was stout. Her brutally short hair sometimes looked as if she had cut it herself. She wore makeup badly. Shelby doubted she knew Prada from Gucci, though she owned both. She was blunt rather than subtle. Still, her father found her refreshing.
Lydia had a successful law practice. She liked working. From the outset, it had been apparent she viewed cosseted, pampered women with very thinly veiled contempt.
Which Shelby deduced meant Lydia held her died-too-young mother in contempt. You didn’t really need an excuse to dislike your stepmother, but Shelby was glad to have one.
Not that it mattered, anyway. Shelby had been twenty-six when her father had married Lydia, well past the age where she needed a mommy. In fact, for the most part, she was able to avoid the newlyweds. If her father and Lydia let her know they were arriving at the location Shelby was at, she quickly vacated it.
Still, there was no avoiding the obligatory “family” gatherings. Which was how she’d had her deduction about Lydia’s contempt for her mother confirmed.
Her father—or maybe Lydia—had selected the Chelsea house for Christmas. Shelby thought it was a poor choice. She found London drab in the winter. Her current boyfriend, Keith—the latest in a long string—had refused to come, so she had bought him a ticket for the Cayman Islands, where she planned to meet him at the Kane property as soon as it was humanly possible.
Coming down the stairs to join Lydia and Boswell, Shelby—dreading making excuses for Keith, whom she knew her father did not approve of—stopped dead in her tracks outside of the double doors of the parlor at the sound of her own name coming off Lydia’s lips.
What she had heard changed Shelby’s entire existence and cemented her dislike for her stepmother.
“Boswell, I’m concerned about Shelby.”
Sure you are, Shelby thought. She waited for her father to protest discussing his daughter with an interloper, and a dowdy one at that, but no, all she heard was her father’s mild “Oh?”
It was all the encouragement Lydia needed.
“She’s obviously being used by Keith.”
Her father, again, was given an opportunity not to indulge in this kind of backstabbing gossip, but he did not.
Instead, he said with a sigh, “Obviously.”
Obviously? That hurt! The truth felt more complex. Shelby sometimes wondered if she wasn’t using Keith.
He suited her. He filled the need for companionship without ever bringing up any sense she would have to commit to him.
Commitment could lead to other things.
Like children.
Shelby liked children. She liked them a lot. In fact, she got on famously with most of the children she knew.
Probably because, until Eventually at least, her maturity had matched theirs. She was pretty sure she’d make a terrible mother.
Still, aside from the qualification of being commitment-phobic, when was the last time Keith had paid for anything? Or even offered to pay for anything?
“In fact, Bosley—”
Ugh. How Shelby hated Lydia calling Boswell that horrible little endearment.
“I don’t like the people she surrounds herself with. They’re superficial, frivolous or users.”
This was patently untrue! Wasn’t it? Besides, Shelby thought huffily, the people she hung around with wouldn’t like Lydia, either.
Because of the way her step-mother wore her hair? Didn’t that kind of prove Lydia’s point?
“I’ve feared the same thing,” her father said.
What?
“But Bosley, dear, it’s really on you. You’ve overindulged poor Shelby to the point of ruination.”
Poor Shelby? Ruination?
“I tried to make up for the fact she had no mother,” Boswell said.
“Of course you did, dear. But, in fact, I fear she did have a mother, and I fear she will end up just like her if you don’t sort it out.”
Shelby felt a familiar shiver of dread at the mention of her mother, which she shrugged off in favor of indignation.
Here was her father’s opportunity! To leap to her defense, and the defense of her mother! It wasn’t as if it was her mother’s fault she had died.
Or was it? a voice in Shelby’s head insisted on whispering. There were still so many unanswered questions around her mother’s death, a topic she had been shielded from since it had happened.
Willingly shielded from. Her father had protected her from the inevitable gossip that surrounded such a beautiful, young, well-known woman’s demise, and Shelby was grateful for that.
Wasn’t she?
Of course she was! She could have searched the details online at any time if she needed more information. The thought of looking up her mother made her feel sick to her stomach, as if she was spying or prying or being disloyal to her memories.
“I’ve had some thoughts,” Lydia said. And then she had outlined, in quite great detail, what those thoughts were.
So, Shelby had been 100 percent prepared when, after an awkward Christmas dinner, her father had suggested a meeting and they had all moved to the stuffy library of the Chelsea house.
Lydia, Shelby noticed, was wearing her lawyer face.
But before Lydia could announce the plan Shelby had already overheard—that she would not receive an allowance, or have access to the family jet, or any of the residences around the world, or their lovely staff who cooked and cleaned and looked after her, or even a driver—Shelby made an announcement of her own.
“I’ve started a little business,” she said casually. “It’s doing quite well.”
Okay, that was a bit of a stretch, but the look of skepticism on Lydia’s face egged her on.
“I’ve decided that I’m perfectly capable of making it on my own.”
Her father had looked flummoxed, and Lydia had looked put out at having her wicked-stepmother scheme snatched out from under her. Both their expressions had made Shelby’s announcement well worth it!
And given her just the incentive she needed to show them by taking her business to the next level.
Now Shelby was eighteen months into Eventually.
Annoyingly, her father and Lydia—and her own niggling doubts—had been absolutely on point about Keith.
Starting her own business had brought out a surprisingly pragmatic side in her. Shopping for your own toilet paper could do that.
And, increasingly, she had seen that she had imbued Keith with poetic qualities of romance and charm, when in fact, he was lazy and lacked goals, focus and ambition. He did not pull his own weight or pay his own way, even when her funds dried up. Instead of offering to step up to the plate, he sulked.
She was not sure why she had set such a low bar for herself. She had fallen into a relationship apparently on a shared value of not wanting to get married and not wanting to have children. Recognizing this aversion to commitment, she swore off love with a sense of relief, rather than loss, and gave herself over to her business with her whole heart and soul.
