Secret Heiress, Secret Baby. Emily McKay

      

       Grant was hit again by that powerful urge to pull her to him.

      To kiss her again. To taste her one last time.

      Instead he pulled her just an inch closer, stared into her eyes and whispered. “You’re a Cain now. You can afford to stay anywhere you damn well want to.”

      She met his gaze head-on. It was different than it had been at the gala, when they were surrounded by people, when the lights were low and the music romantic. There, he’d almost believed she really was a Cain. Almost believed she wasn’t the woman he’d once known.

      But here, in this crummy motel, under the harsh cheap lights, here he couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t pretend.

      This was Meg. His Meg.

      With her alabaster skin and her Cain-blue eyes.

      She glared at him defiantly. “I am a Cain. I have always been a Cain. And this is where I want to stay.”

      His gaze dropped to her lips, and for a moment the urge to kiss her was almost overwhelming. Would she still taste like cinnamon and sugar? Would she still melt against him?

      * * *

      Secret Heiress, Secret Baby is part of the At Cain’s Command series: Three brothers must find their illegitimate sister … or forfeit a fortune

      Secret Heiress,

      Secret Baby

      Emily McKay

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      EMILY McKAY has been reading romance novels since she was eleven years old. Her first romance came free. She has been reading and loving romance novels ever since. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA^® Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.emilymckay.com.

      For my dear son, you may very well be the most charming man I know, and I don’t think I’m being partial either.

      Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Prologue

      After a mere three weeks of sleeping next to Meg Lathem, Grant Sheppard knew she was gone the instant he woke up. She liked to sleep curled against his side, one leg draped over his hips, her head resting on his shoulder. Of course, waking up at three or four in the morning only to find her puttering around the kitchen was normal.

      He stumbled out of bed, pulled on the jeans he’d left draped over the rocking chair in the corner and went to find her.

      In a house this size, it didn’t take long. Her two-bedroom bungalow just a few blocks off the square in Victoria, Texas, was the house she’d grown up in. For a man like Grant, who’d grown up among the wealthy elite of Houston, this small town not far from the coast didn’t hold much appeal. He had come here—and stayed here—for Meg.

      She was baking again and the smell—a combination of toasted nuts and caramelized sugar—was divine.

      That scent alone would have lured him out of bed.

      He paused when he got to the kitchen, propping his shoulder against the doorway and watching her. Her inky-black Bettie Page hair was pulled up into a ponytail that bobbed enticingly as she moved. She’d thrown on a nightgown—something skimpy and sheer that hit her just below the curve of her butt. She’d put on an apron over that. Her feet were bare, her nails painted navy blue. The tattoo on the back of her leg peeked out from under the hem of her nightie when she bent over. She was sexier than a girl in a pinup calendar and every swish of her hem and wiggle of her ass made him ache with the need to claim her.

      Between the retro kitchen and Meg’s vintage style, he might have thought he’d traveled back in time to the forties. Only the blue nail polish and the tattoo ruined the illusion. That and the blowtorch she’d just lit up.

      He knew better than to sneak up behind her while she was working. Instead, he just stood there and enjoyed the view, waiting as she skimmed the bright blue flame over the top of a pie’s meringue, singeing the tips of the curlicues a golden brown. When she straightened and flicked the blowtorch off, he walked into the room.

      “What’d