The Love Child. Catherine Mann

into Alaska Oil Barons, Incorporated, had dominated stock exchange news, causing the market to fluctuate. Shares had only just begun to steady when the Steele patriarch suffered a major injury in a horseback-riding accident.

      Now the two factions were working overtime to make sure the company presented a cohesive image when it came to leadership. With so many offspring on both sides, Isabeau was still stunned that this man, who preferred running the family’s ranch up in Alaska’s north country, was their pick to be the face of the merged company. Apparently, siblings on both sides of the family were having marriage troubles, health issues or were too shy to speak in public, leaving them with only this rugged Mikkelson cowboy and a teenage Steele kid to choose from. Since the teenager was obviously not an option, that left Trystan Mikkelson.

      For now, anyway.

      Her mission? To make him over. His wardrobe was easy enough. The tougher part though? To keep him in-line and on-message for the next four weeks until the Wilderness Preservation Initiative Fund-raiser—a wine and dine with celebrities. Then stay on until his mother’s wedding to the Steele oil magnate, Jack.

      She’d done this pre-assessment routine time and time again, with many different kinds of people. But as she took note of his measurements, her eyes falling to his angular jaw... Well keeping herself on-message seemed like it would be the true work.

      He shifted from one dusty boot to the other. “No disrespect to your profession, ma’am, but I’m not going to be trussed up like some pretty boy.”

      “I will keep your wardrobe preferences in mind as I order pieces and talk to the tailor. You will still be you, but a version of you that inspires confidence from less...rugged investors.” Isabeau tucked a stray hair behind her ear, fingers barely grazing the pearl drop earrings her best friend had given her when she’d launched her image consulting company. A gesture of good luck, and Isabeau had made it a ritual to always wear them to the first fitting.

      He grunted.

      She rolled her eyes. “Use your words, please.”

      “Excuse me?” He raised one dark brow. “I’m not a damn toddler.”

      She agreed one hundred percent with that.

      “Exactly. The stakes are much higher than a time-out. Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., has hired me to do a job.” And that job apparently was going to include polishing his words as well as his wardrobe.

      Although she could tell he’d made an attempt at spiffing up today. But based on comparison to photos she’d researched of him online, spiffing for him meant swapping worn, faded flannel with a fresh-out-of-the-package plaid. She appreciated the effort. Not that she’d suffered any illusions that this would be an easy gig.

      For more reasons than one.

      Keeping her professional distance around this hulking sexy distraction would be a challenge, to say the least.

      Eyes upward. A much safer option.

      Maybe.

      He was grinning, damn him.

      His thick hair looked perpetually rumpled by the wind into a dusty brown storm. A part of her grieved over his impending appointment with the barber. But she needed that hair to be a bit more tamed. The man too.

      His broad shoulders and chest were sculpted with muscles born of hard work rather than in a gym. She would need to order larger suit jackets and his tuxedo would need to be custom-made.

      He was all man, and her mouth watered with desire.

      Totally unprofessional and barely controllable.

      She reined her thoughts in, focusing on getting her notes in place. Nabbing Alaska Oil Barons, Inc., was a coup. They were a big-time client for her, and the merger of the Mikkelson and Steele companies made the corporation all the more newsworthy right now. The business still operated out of two office buildings where the Steeles and Mikkelsons once had their individual spaces. Today, she was in the Mikkelson space.

      Jeannie Mikkelson’s office to be exact—Trystan’s office for now, since his mother was plastered to her new fiancé’s side while Jack Steele recovered from surgery after a horseback-riding accident. The spacious office was gorgeous and one Isabeau would give her eyeteeth to have, but she had to confess it didn’t fit Trystan Mikkelson. From the cream-colored office chair to the sea foam–colored furniture with teal accents, it was more of a woman’s space.

      Trystan’s eyes kept shifting to the windows along the wall and the skylight, as if he was considering an escape route to the great outdoors he was reputed to prefer.

      She glanced down to jot additional notes for short-term and long-term goals. First order of business, getting Trystan properly outfitted for his sister Glenna’s wedding to the oldest Steele brother, Broderick, this weekend.

      As CFOs, Glenna and Broderick were the obvious ones to take the helm of the company for now, but they were emphatic that their relationship deserved to come first. The other Mikkelson son, Charles, Jr., insisted the same for his troubled marriage. And while Isabeau applauded their devotion to their spouses, and she intended to spin their choices well in the press releases, she also wanted to shake every one of them for not recognizing how tenuous things were with the merger right now.

      Stockholders needed reassurance. Panic was a dangerous emotion.

      Her thoughts somersaulted away from the task at hand, her mind’s eye turning to Paige, her Labrador retriever, who’d stretched beneath the sofa, only her head and paws sticking out. As if the dog could sense Isabeau’s attention, Paige raised her head, those wide brown eyes sympathetic and reassuring all at once. Paige cocked her head, ears flopping and fur rustling against the red vest that proclaimed her a service dog in huge black capital letters. In a smaller, less sprawling font, was the instructive Do Not Pet. Isabeau needed Paige to alert her to diabetic issues.

      And anxiety attacks.

      But Isabeau preferred to keep her reasons for having a service dog as private as possible. Panic attacks played a major role in why she chose to be a behind-the-scenes media person rather than working in front of the cameras. Her stalker boyfriend from college was in prison now, but the fear remained close.

      Clearing her throat, she held up the tape measure again, standing. “Almost finished.”

      “Glad to know.” He stretched his arms wide as she measured across his chest.

      She considered herself a professional. She’d never had a problem with desiring a client before, while on the job.

      It was going to be a long month completing her contract.

      But this gig would cement her reputation, and it carried the potential to land her more clients of this caliber. She had only herself to depend on—no family, no fat inheritance. Her health was stable for now, but her diabetes had sidelined her before. She needed to build a cushion of savings for emergencies.

      Never would she be like her mother, flat broke and alone.

      “Mr. Mikkelson, you need—”

      “Trystan,” he insisted in that gravelly voice of his, a melodic rumble.

      “Trystan,” she conceded. “You need to weigh your words carefully. Less is more, which actually, now that I think about it, should be an easier path for you. Just no impulsive outbursts. It’s easier to add to a statement than to walk back a negative impression.”

      “It’s just a fund-raiser. I’ve been attending them my whole life.”

      “You’re more than attending now. You’re the figurehead of the company, a company with a president that almost died when he broke his spine in the middle of a major merger.” She reminded him of what he should clearly be keeping top-of-mind but still seemed to disregard. “If you really prefer not to do this, I could talk to your family about one of the Steele siblings taking over the public role—heaven knows there are plenty of them...”

      “No, I’ve got this.” He pulled