Marriage At A Price. Miranda Lee

      “It’s not charity I’m offering you. It’s a deal.”

      “A deal,” Courtney repeated, dismay clutching at her heart.

      Not love…

      A deal…

      “I will clear your debts if you do something for me in return.”

      “For heaven’s sake, what?” It had to be something huge in return for three million dollars.

      Jack looked worried for a second. “This might be a bit of a shock, coming so quickly after we’ve met. But I’m quite sure on my part. In fact, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

      “Jack, for pity’s sake, what?”

      “I want you to have my child.”

      Some of our bestselling authors are Australians!

      Lindsay Armstrong…

      Helen Bianchin…

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      Miranda Lee…

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      Coming soon:

      A Question of Marriage

       by Lindsay Armstrong

      Harlequin Presents^® #2208

      He’s big, he’s brash, he’s brazen…he’s Australian!

      Miranda Lee

      Marriage at a Price

      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

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      COURTNEY knew, the moment she saw William Sinclair’s face, that her mother’s accountant had really bad news. He’d hedged over the phone when she’d asked him if Crosswinds was in financial trouble, saying he just needed to have a little chat with her, face to face.

      Courtney hadn’t been fooled by that. Her mother’s cost-cutting measures these past couple of years had been obvious to everyone. Staff was down to a minimum. The fences had not been painted. Other repairs had been left undone. The place had begun to look shabby. Which wasn’t exactly good for business.

      If Crosswinds was to compete against the lavish and very modern thoroughbred studs now gracing the Upper Hunter Valley, then it needed to look its very best.

      When she’d pointed this out to her mother earlier in the year, Hilary hadn’t agreed. ‘What we need, daughter, is a new stallion. Not fancy stables.’

      Which was also true. Four years earlier, when the stud had been doing very well, her mother had imported a classy Irish stayer named Four-Leaf Clover.

      Unfortunately, the horse had contracted a virus and had died shortly after standing his first season at stud. His only crop of foals hadn’t been much to look at as yearlings, bringing such poor bidding at auction that Hilary had stubbornly kept most of them rather than let them go for less than they’d cost to breed.

      With Four-Leaf Clover gone, and their remaining two sires both getting older, Crosswinds had a real hole in its breeding program. But there hadn’t been the money to buy a replacement till this year.

      ‘I’ll still have to look for a bargain,’ her mother had told her. ‘I haven’t got much spare cash.’

      Her mum had been cock-a-hoop when she’d arrived home with Goldplated in May, especially with the price she’d negotiated. Though no price was a real bargain, Courtney realised ruefully as she walked into the accountant’s office, if the money to buy the darned horse had been borrowed.

      William Sinclair rose as she entered, being the old-fashioned gentleman that he was. ‘Good morning, Courtney,’ he greeted. ‘Do sit down.’ And he waved her to the single chair facing his large, but large, ancient desk.

      Courtney took off her Akubra hat and sat down, making herself as comfortable as she could in the stiff-backed seat. A fruitless exercise. Tension had already knotted the muscles between her shoulder blades.

      The accountant dropped his eyes to the papers in front of him, then started shuffling them around.

      Courtney’s agitation rose. She wasn’t in the mood for any further procrastination.

      ‘Just give it to me straight, Bill,’ she began bluntly, and his eyes lifted, his expression faintly disapproving. He’d never liked her calling him Bill. But that was rather irrelevant at the moment. ‘No bulldust now. No waffle. I’m my mother’s daughter. I can take it.’

      William shook his head at the young woman sitting before him. Yes, she was indeed her mother’s daughter, he thought wearily.

      Not in looks. Lord, no. Hilary Cross had been as plain as a pikestaff. Her daughter had clearly taken after her father, that unknown, unspoken-of male who had miraculously impregnated the forty-five-year-old spinster owner of Crosswinds over a quarter of a century ago, then disappeared off the face of the earth.

      Gossip claimed he’d been a gypsy, and Courtney’s looks seemed to confirm that, with her long black curly hair, dark brown eyes and rich olive skin. A striking-looking girl, in William’s opinion.

      Her personality and ways, however, were pure Hilary. Just look at the way she was sitting, for heaven’s sake, with her right ankle hooked up over her left knee. That was how men sat, not young ladies. And then there was the matter of her dress, ‘dress’ being the pertinent word. Because she never wore one! William had never seen her in anything but blue jeans and a checked shirt. Yet she had a very good figure.

      As for that glorious hair of hers. It was always bundled up into a rough pony-tail, then shoved under a dusty brown stockman’s hat. Lipstick never graced her deliciously full mouth. And the only scent he ever smelt on her was leather and horses!

      But it was her manner that rankled William the most. Not quite as aggressive and opinionated as her mother, she was still far too tactless with people. And bold in her attitude all round. Bold as brass!

      Of course, it wasn’t her fault. Hilary had raised Courtney as though she were a boy, letting her run wild from the time she was a tiny tot. He could still remember the day he’d driven out to Crosswinds, when Courtney had been about eleven or twelve. She’d met him at the gate, riding a big black colt with a crazed look in its eye and wide, snorting nostrils. Far too much horse for a man, let alone a wisp of a girl.

      ‘Race you up to the house,’ she’d shouted from where the horse had been dancing around in circles, obviously eager to get going. ‘Last one there is a rotten egg!’ And, nudging the huge beast in the flanks with her heels, she’d