Slade Baron's Bride. Sandra Marton

      

      “Marriage.”

      She stared up at him, into those unreadable eyes. “What?”

      “We’re going to be married. Tomorrow.” His words were clipped. She thought, crazily, that they might have been arranging a dental appointment. “At noon.”

      She waited for him to laugh. When he didn’t, she gave one bark of hysterical laughter for the both of them.

      “You’re crazy.”

      He grabbed her arm as she turned away and spun her toward him. “It’s the only solution,” he said coldly. “My son is going to have two parents. A father, and a mother.”

      Four brothers:

       bonded by inheritance, battling for love!

      Jonas Baron is approaching his eighty-fifth birthday. He has ruled Espada, his sprawling estate in Texas hill country, for more than forty years, but now he admits it’s time he chose an heir.

      Jonas has three sons—Gage, Travis and Slade, all ruggedly handsome and each with a successful business empire of his own; none wishes to give up the life he’s fought for to take over Espada. Jonas also has a stepdaughter; beautiful and spirited, Caitlin loves the land as much as he does, but she’s not of the Baron blood.

      So who will receive Baron’s bequest? As Gage, Travis, Slade and Caitlin discover, there’s more at stake than just Espada. For love also has its part to play in deciding their futures….

      Sit back now and enjoy Slade’s story, and be sure to look out next for The Taming of Tyler Kincaid. In this sensational, longer, value-read, Caitlin finally meets her match in the mysterious Tyler. But is he Jonas’s long-lost son, the fourth Baron brother? Available February (#2081), in Harlequin Presents^®

      Slade Baron’s Bride

      Sandra Marton

      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

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      SLADE BARON figured the blonde in the green suede suit had to know that her skirt fell open each time she crossed her legs.

      They were fine-looking legs, too. Long, tanned and trim.

      He was waiting out a weather delay in East Coast Air’s first-class lounge and he’d noticed her when she’d first entered, about half an hour ago. Every man in the room had noticed her. They’d have to have been neutered, to ignore a woman that desirable, especially when there was nothing else to look at besides the rain, pelting against the window.

      As beautiful as she was, she looked completely businesslike, carrying a computer case in one hand and a carry-on in the other, the same as almost everyone else who was waiting out the summer storm. But then she sat down, right opposite Slade, took a book from the outside pocket of her carry-on, crossed her legs…and the proper-looking suede skirt revealed a slit that went straight up to her thighs.

      She knew it, too. She crossed, and recrossed those long, gorgeous legs damned near every two minutes. And Slade was in just the right place to admire the view.

      Every other man in hailing distance was doing the same thing. Why wouldn’t they? There was no point in staring out at the rain, or at the bolts of lightning that sizzled across the charcoal sky. Looking at the Departure Board wasn’t much better. Delayed, delayed, delayed, was what it said, what it would say until the storm passed over.

      Slade had already gone through the notes for his presentation, read the Business section of the Boston Globe, phoned Edwin Dobbs at the Beaufort Trust in Baltimore. It was either watch Blondie or go nuts with boredom.

      Blondie was the winner, hands down.

      She looked up from her book, caught Slade’s frankly appraising glance and smiled. He smiled back. She put her head down again, flipped a page, then gently slid one leg against the other. The skirt fell open another couple of inches. Slade folded his arms, narrowed his eyes, settled back and let his imagination take over.

      What did the skirt still conceal?

      Black lace, probably. He’d known a lot of women in his thirty years, more than his fair share, his brothers said teasingly, and he was sure that Blondie was the black lace type. On the other hand, a delicate pink would look great against that tan.

      Those long legs scissored, and there it was. Black lace, just a flash, but enough to make the guy sitting a couple of chairs away groan. The poor sap covered it well, changing the groan to a cough, but Blondie knew.

      She lifted her head, looked straight at the guy, then at Slade. She smiled. He smiled. And when she repeated the I’m-wearing-lace-panties routine, Slade picked up his computer case and his carry-on bag, rose from his chair, started toward her…

      And stopped. Just stopped, halfway across the floor.

      The blonde’s brows lifted. She waited. Hell, he could feel everybody waiting, watching, trying to figure out what was going on. A man would have to be comatose not to have understood the invitation, and dead not to accept it.

      Slade wasn’t comatose or dead, but he was going to pass. He hadn’t known it until a second ago but now he did, the same as he knew it was his only choice. Memory had deadened the pleasant sense of anticipation and turned it to anger. Not at the blonde, or the weather.

      Slade’s anger was at himself.

      Frowning, he strode past the blonde, who looked after him with a sigh of disappointment. He went past the reception desk where some bozo with a loud voice and a red face was bitching about missing his flight, out the door and into the general waiting area.

      Ahead, through the windows, he could see flight 435 to Baltimore squatting beside its gate like some big, wet gray bird. People milled around. It was noisy, crowded and not even the air conditioning could keep up with the heat and humidity.

      Slade kept on walking, straight through the building, until he reached the end of the corridor. He stopped, stared out the window again and told himself to stop being an idiot.

      “It was eighteen months ago,” he muttered. “A year and a half. And that’s as good as forever, in any man’s life.”

      A muscle knotted in his cheek. He put his computer and his carry-on at his feet, pulled his cellular phone from his pocket and called his office.

      “It’s me,” he said when his secretary answered. “Any messages?”

      There were none but he hadn’t really expected any, considering that he’d phoned only half an hour or so earlier. He disconnected, started to punch in the number for the Beaufort Trust but stopped when he realized he’d just done that only a little while ago, too. He picked up his computer, started to look for a public phone and changed his mind. There were probably no urgent e-mails, either.

      He took the nearest chair, sighed and turned on the machine.

      Solitaire would eat up some time. It always gave him a laugh, how many well-dressed business