EILEEN WILKS is the New York Times best-selling author of over thirty books and novellas. Eileen came to writing the usual way: by reading compulsively and daydreaming a lot. She likes quilting, dark matter, chocolate, books on brain science, yoga (even though she’s not good at it), and painting things – walls, boxes, furniture, floors, even canvases sometimes…but not the cats. The cats do not wish to be painted.

USA TODAY bestselling author, KATHIE DENOSKY, writes highly emotional stories laced with a good dose of humour. Kathie lives in her native southern Illinois and loves writing at night while listening to country music on her favourite radio station.

MAUREEN CHILD is the author of more than 130 romance novels and novellas that routinely appear on bestseller lists and have won numerous awards, including the National Reader’s Choice Award. A seven-time nominee for the prestigious RITA® award from Romance Writers of America, one of her books was made into a CBS-TV movie called The Soul Collecter. Maureen recently moved from California to the mountains of Utah and is trying to get used to snow.

Dynasties: The Ashtons

Entangled

Eileen Wilks

A Rare Sensation

Kathie DeNosky

Society-Page Seduction

Maureen Child

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90651-1

DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Cover

About the Authors

Title Page

Note to Readers

Entangled

Dedication

Prologue

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

Epilogue

A Rare Sensation

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Society-Page Seduction

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Publisher

Entangled

Eileen Wilks

This book is dedicated to my fellow Desire authors – those on the loop, and especially those who participated in this continuity series.

You’ve been a delight to work with. Desire authors are a great bunch, giving and supportive and maybe a little crazy. I’m glad to be one of you.

Prologue

Nobody expected the church to be full. At eleventhirty on a rainy Wednesday morning in Crawley, Nebraska, most folks were at work. But the postmistress was there, and the druggist and his wife, and the banker with his wife sat in their usual pew. Many of the county’s farming families were represented, for the families of the bride and the groom were farmers.

And, of course, the Mortimer twins sat in their usual spots—sixth from the front on the center aisle. Flora and Dora hadn’t missed a wedding in this church for fifty-five years. A little rain couldn’t dampen their enthusiasm.

“Doesn’t young Spencer look handsome,” Flora whispered.

Her sister snorted. “Handsome is as handsome does. You can’t tell me that hellion would be up there waiting for his bride if—”

The postmistress turned around and gave them an admonishing look.

“Don’t you look at me that way, Emmaline Bradley,” Dora said. “Francis is still on ‘Rock of Ages.’ No reason we can’t talk when she’s still on ‘Rock of Ages.’”

Flora tugged on her arm. “Look. They’re seating Spencer’s father,” she whispered. “He doesn’t look very happy about the wedding, does he?”

Dora sniffed. “Frederick Ashton hasn’t been happy since he was weaned. Got two moods, that man—mad and madder. What Pastor Brown was thinking of to make him a deacon…well, that’s beside the point.”

Lucy Johnson, on the other side of Flora, leaned closer. “At least Frederick made sure his son did right by poor Sally.”

Flora bobbed her head in agreement like a chicken pecking at the dirt. “Poor Sally. I can see why she fell into temptation. That Ashton boy is so…so…”

“Handsome,” Dora finished dryly. “I’m not so sure Frederick did Sally any favors.”

“Oh, Spencer’s just young,” Lucy said. “A touch on the wild side, maybe, but so was my Charlie before we married. And we’ve been together forty-two years now.”

Emmaline Bradley turned around again. “Shh!”

Flora flushed, Lucy’s lips thinned and Dora didn’t notice. She was frowning at the back of Frederick Ashton’s head three rows up. There had been rumors that the man used a heavy hand with his sons. He was big, burly and domineering—the kind who liked to say, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Dora was sure neither Spencer nor his brother, David, had been in danger of being spoiled.

Francis struck the opening chord of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” Here comes the bride…

At the back of the church, Sally Barnett pressed a hand to her unhappy stomach. The satin wedding gown felt cold and slippery.

“Butterflies, sweetheart?” her father said.

More like nausea. But Daddy looked so anxious…surely Mama was right. Spencer would settle down once the babies came. She summoned a smile. “I’m nervous,” she whispered.

He patted her hand. “You’re supposed to be. This is our cue, honey.”

Together they stepped out in the stately slow march that would carry them up the aisle to where Spencer waited. Sally’s skirts swished over the carpet and her heart pounded and pounded. She clutched her bouquet so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t squeeze it right in two.

Spencer looked so wonderful in his tux. So what if they’d had to rent it? She’d told him over and over that didn’t matter…except that it did. To him. He was hungry for things, for the trappings of success. But she understood why. He’d grown up hearing his mother whine about how little they had, how much better things would have been if his father had sold the farm years ago. He’d come to believe that happiness came from things, not people.

She’d show him differently, she promised herself as her father released her and stepped back. She’d be such a good wife to him that he’d never regret this day.

Her heart turned over when Spencer took her hand, just as it always had for him. He didn’t love her. Not in the deep, aching way she loved him. But she’d be patient. She’d teach him how to love.

Nausea forgotten, Sally’s face shone as she listened to the preacher repeat the familiar words. Her young groom stood tall and straight beside her.

Spencer glanced at Sally. Look at the stupid bitch smile, he thought. Thinks she has me trapped, doesn’t she? The selfish cow had gone crying to her daddy when she found out she was pregnant, and he’d tattled to the old man…A trickle of cold sweat ran down Spencer’s spine.

“Do you, Spencer Winston Ashton, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?” the preacher said. “To have and to hold…”

Frederick Ashton was the one person in the world Spencer feared. And however much lip service Frederick paid to the Bible, his real god was his standing in the community. He’d made it clear that Spencer wouldn’t be allowed to tarnish that.

“…for richer, for poorer…”

Maybe Sally had won for now, but not for long, he promised himself. He was destined for great things. He’d always known that.

“…and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” Spencer said solemnly. Someway, somehow, he’d find a way out of this dead-end town, out into the wide world waiting for him.

Chapter One

Napa Valley, California. Forty-three years later.

Dixie turned off the highway with “Cowboys from Hell” blasting away on the stereo—her notion of motivational music. Who could succumb to nerves with Pantera singing about cowboys from way down under coming to take the town?

Her palms were damp on the steering wheel.

She’d missed the light the most, she thought as she pointed the nose of her Toyota down the little county road. Seasons took sharp turns in New York. She’d enjoyed that, jazzed by the way winter hit with a howl and a slap, knocking autumn flat on its face. California’s seasons jostled for position more politely, one blending into the next in a watercolor wash rather than the charcoal ultimatums of the North.

But the light…January light in the Valley didn’t bounce around with the flat, frenetic energy of summer, but smoothed itself around tree trunks and buildings, settling on roads and earth with a visual hum.

She was looking forward to painting that light. And that’s why she was here, she reminded herself as she slowed. She had a job to do. If she could settle a few ghosts while she was at it, well and good. The silly things had started tugging on her sleeve after she returned to California. It was time to look them in their pale, wispy little faces and get on with her life.

The arch over the entry was tall and wide, a graceful cast-iron curve with replicas of the property’s namesake vines twining up its sides.

She was here. Dixie took a deep breath and turned onto the driveway leading up to The Vines.

The house lay directly ahead. She took the curve to the left, heading for the winery, offices and tasting room, housed together in a large, two-story building with a roof that made her think of a Chinese peasant’s peaked hat. She pulled into the parking lot in a car crowded with ghosts, shut off the ignition and sat there a moment, absorbing the changes…and the things that had remained the same.

Then she retrieved her hat and her purse, checked on Hulk and opened the car door.

The air smelled of earth and grapes. The scents slithered past her conscious mind and plopped into the swampy goo of the unconscious, splattering her with memories.

Not sad memories, though. Loud, laughing, sometimes angry, but not sad. That’s what made this so hard. She took a deep breath and let the ghosts slide through her, then stepped forward.

“Dixie!” A slim young woman in a cream-colored suit stepped out on the porch. Her hair had undoubtedly started the day in a sleek knot at her nape. The sleek was long gone, but most of the knot remained. She hurried down the steps. “You’re late. Was the traffic bad? What did you forget? Where’s your cat?”

Laughing, Dixie caught her friend up in a hug. “Traffic sucked, I won’t know what I forgot until I can’t find it and Hulk is asleep in his carrier. God, you look great!” She stepped back, looking Mercedes over. “Skinny as ever—they’d adore you in New York—and I love the wispies.” She flicked one of the curls frantically escaping bondage. “But that is one boring outfit.”

“We can’t all dress like artistes.” Mercedes’ mouth tucked down and she shook her head. “Not that I could pull off an outfit like that, anyway.”

“You like it? I call it my Beach Blanket Bimbo look.” Dixie had changed her mind and her outfit five times this morning, finally deciding on a what-the-hell combination of yellow vintage capris and matching halter top with a Hawaiian shirt in lieu of a jacket. The oversize sunglasses and straw hat were more sixties than fifties, but Dixie wasn’t a purist.

Mercedes laughed and started for the building. “But that’s just it. You look very retro chic, not like a bimbo at all.”

“Well, this is the wrong era for you,” Dixie said, falling into step beside Mercedes. “I’m the one with a body straight out of the forties or fifties. You’d look great in flapper clothes—long, lean and sophisticated.”

“I am so not the flapper type.”

“You’re wearing a button-down oxford shirt with that suit, Merry. You need help.”

Mercedes held a hand up, half laughing, half alarmed. “Oh, no, you don’t. Do not help me. I’m not up to it right now.”

“Hmm.” Dixie stepped up on the porch and looked around. Eleven years ago this had been a smaller, less stylish building. “Someone does good work. The expansion is invisible—it looks like it was always this way. Now show me your lair.”

“If you mean the tasting room, it’s through here. We’re talking about a possible remodel—Jillian’s idea.”

Dixie tipped her head to one side as she stepped inside. Mercedes was tense, which was weird. She was the one whose stomach had every right to be doing the bubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble bit. “Hey, this is nice.” She took her hat off and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, looking around.

Lots of exposed wood, subdued lighting, great views…nice room, yes, but it suffered from split personality. It couldn’t make up its mind whether it was rustic or modern. “What did you have in mind for the remodel?”

“Nothing’s decided yet, but we want to unify the look, tie it to the theme of the promotional campaign.” The tense set to Mercedes’ shoulder didn’t ease. “The offices are upstairs. Eli’s out in the vineyard, so I’ll take you to Cole.” She headed for a door at the back of the room at a good clip.

Dixie didn’t move.

“Dixie?” Mercedes paused with the door open, looking over her shoulder with a frown. “Are you coming?”

“Not until you tell me what has you wound tighter than a cheap watch. And don’t pull that princess face on me,” she warned. “It won’t work.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve turned polite,” Dixie observed. “Always a bad sign. What is it? Is Cole upset that you hired me for the illustrations?” The flash of guilt on Mercedes’ face made her exclaim, “He does know, right? Mercedes?”

“Not…exactly.”

Dixie closed her eyes and put a hand on her stomach. Yep, things were churning around nicely in there. “Am I going to be fired before I start?”

“He can’t do that,” Mercedes assured her. “We’ve got a contract, and he and Eli gave me full authority to hire you. That is, they didn’t know it was you, but I told them all the places your work has appeared, and they were eager to sign you on.”

“And here I was afraid you’d grown risk averse,” Dixie muttered, opening her eyes. “What were you thinking?”

“That Louret Winery needs you for our new ad campaign. You’re the best.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Dixie said, not being one to underestimate her talent. “But it doesn’t explain your vow of silence.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your two big brothers for bosses?” Mercedes demanded. “I did not want to waste time arguing with Cole. Come on, Dixie. I know this is a little awkward, but it’s not like you’re really shook. You?” She grinned. “A tornado wouldn’t rattle you.”

Shook, no. Pit-of-the-stomach scared…yeah, that was about right. “Cole’s face ought to be an interesting sight when I walk in.”

Mercedes laughed, relieved. “I’m looking forward to it. And then I’m ducking.”

“Thanks. You’ve made me feel so much better.”

Behind the tasting room was a short hall with doors leading into the winery proper and stairs to the office area. Not luxurious, Dixie thought as she started up the stairs after Mercedes, but several notches above utilitarian. It looked as if the winery was prospering.

Eleven years was a long time. What was she afraid of, anyway?

That he hated her.

She put a hand on her stomach again. It had been a long time, yes, but Cole was not a tepid man. He ran hot or cold without lingering much in the temperate zone…though most people didn’t see that, fooled by the glossy surface.

Cole did have shine, she admitted. But so does a new calculator.

At least he used to. Maybe he’d gotten fat. Mercedes hadn’t mentioned it, but Dixie hadn’t exactly encouraged her to talk about her brother. “Hey, Merry,” she said as she reached the top of the stairs, “has Cole been putting weight on?”

Mercedes gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Ah, well. Can’t win them all.” However this turned out, she could take comfort in one thing. Cole wouldn’t have forgotten her. “Here,” she said, digging into her pocket. “After you cut and run, you can go get Hulk out of the suvvy and put him in my room.”

Mercedes accepted the keys. “Um…suvvy?”

“SUV sounds ugly. Suvvy sounds cute.”

“Suvvy. Right.” Mercedes shook her head, smiling—and impulsively reached out and hugged Dixie with one arm. “I’m so glad you moved back. Sorry for the reason, of course, but glad to have you close again.”

“Me, too,” Dixie said quietly. “On both counts. Well.” She ran a hand through her hair, straightened her shoulders, and said, “How does that poem go? ‘Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!…Into the Valley of Death…’ I can’t remember the rest.”

Mercedes grinned. “Something about ‘cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right.’ I’m pretty sure Cole doesn’t have any cannons in his office.” She turned and rapped smartly on the door on her right.

“I notice you’re not disputing the Valley of Death part.”

Mercedes ignored that and opened the door. “Cole, our artist is here. Shannon’s sick, so I’ve got to man the tasting room in twenty minutes. I thought you might show her around.”

“I’d be happy to,” said a smooth, almost forgotten baritone. “As soon as I…” His voice trailed away as Dixie stepped in behind Mercedes.

He hasn’t changed. That was her first thought—and it was quite wrong.

Cole was still lean as a whip with mink-brown hair cut short in an effort to tame the curl. He had neat, small ears set flat to the head, a strong nose and straight slashes of eyebrows. But the face that had been almost too good-looking eleven years ago had acquired character lines that rubbed off a bit of the gloss.

Then there was the way his mouth was hanging open. That was definitely different. She liked it.

Dixie smiled slowly, hardly noticing when the door closed behind Mercedes. “Hello, Cole.”

Cole’s face smoothed into a professional smile. “Welcome to The Vines. As I was saying, I’d be glad to show you around…as soon as I’ve killed my little sister.”

Dixie burst out laughing. “And here I’d been thinking you’d be all cold and businesslike.”

“And I know how you feel about businesslike. I’ll try to avoid it.” He gave her a thorough, up-and-down appraisal that stopped an inch short of insult. “You’ve always tended to run late, but eleven years is excessive, even for you.”

She shook her head. “You aren’t going to fluster me that way.”

“I can try.”

Time to switch topics, she decided, and glanced around the office, which was ruthlessly neat everywhere except for the big, dark-wood desk. A spotted canine head poked around the corner of that desk, brown eyes looking at her hopefully. “Oh!” She bent, smiling. “Who’s this?”

“Tilly. She won’t let you pet her.”

“No?” Challenged, she held out her hand for the dog to sniff—and the animal cringed back out of sight behind the desk. “She is timid, isn’t she?”

“That, yes. Also neurotic and not too bright,” he said, reaching down to fondle the animal Dixie couldn’t see. “Tilly’s scared of storms, other dogs, birds, new people, loud noises—you name it, she’s afraid of it.”

Dixie moved around to the side of the desk so she could see the dog. “She’s some kind of Dalmatian mix?”

“That and greyhound, the vet thinks, with maybe some plain old mutt mixed in. I found her on the side of the highway about a year ago.”

“How in the world did you get her to go with you if she’s scared of everyone?”

He glanced down at Tilly, his smile amused—and slightly baffled. “She seemed to think she’d been waiting for me. I stopped, opened my door, and she jumped in.”

Dixie shook her head. “She is female.”

“But not my usual type.” His crooked smile hadn’t changed—a downtuck on one side, uptilt on the other, as if he were wryly hedging his bets. “All right, Tilly, that’s all. Lie down.” Amazingly, she did. He looked back at Dixie. “Are you waiting to be invited to sit down? By all means, have a seat.”

Dixie thought that the dog seemed just Cole’s type—obedient. Consciously virtuous, she forbore to mention that as she sat in the chair in front of the cluttered desk.

So far so good. The tug in the pit of her stomach was mostly memory, she told herself, a response to remembered passion. It had nothing to do with the man in front of her now. “You’ve done wonders with Louret Wines.”

“Eli is the wonder worker. I’m just the bottomline man. How’s life been treating you? You’re looking good.”

“My life’s been full of the usual ups and downs, thank you. How’s yours?”

“Busy. You’ve made a name for yourself. Congratulations.”

A laugh sputtered out. “This will teach me to make a big deal out of things. You wouldn’t believe how I’d built up this meeting in my mind. Now, after only a couple of quick jabs, we’re exchanging polite compliments.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’re disappointed.”

“No. Well, maybe a little.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not as if I wanted to be treated to that frigid way you have with people you don’t like. You can do cold better than the North wind’s granny.”

Something flashed in his eyes, but his smile was easy. “I’m a warm, lovable guy these days. Mellow.”

That made her grin. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You’ll be here a few days, I understand.”

“Poking my nose into everything. That’s how I work.”

“Hmm.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been compared to Maxwell and Rockwell—not in terms of style, but recognition. I’m wondering how we can afford you.”

Dixie let herself look amazed, which wasn’t hard. She’d had no idea he’d paid attention to her career. “Didn’t you read the contract?”

“For some reason Mercedes wanted to handle everything herself,” he said dryly.

“Well, you’re buying reproduction rights to my paintings, not the paintings themselves. They’d cost you a good deal more.” She planned to give one to Mercedes, but that was friendship, not business.

“So you’re not doing this as a favor to Mercedes?”

She shrugged. “That’s part of it.”

At last he stood. “Would you like that tour now?”

“Let’s go.”

Cole waved for Dixie to go down the stairs first, which left him looking at the top of her head. It shouldn’t have been an enticing view, but her hair had always fascinated him. Dirty blond, she’d called it. Sand colored, he’d thought. A dozen shades of shifting sand falling fine and straight, like sand poured from an open hand.

“Mercedes will have told you in general what we’re looking for,” he said as they reached the short hall at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re planning a series of ads in some of the upscale magazines and want a painterly look for them, nothing high-tech or mass-produced. We want them to convey the handson, personal quality of our wines.”

“She did.” Dixie had a slow smile, as if she liked to take her time and enjoy the process. “She also said you gave her a hard time about some aspects of the concept.”

“You can see who won. You’re here, even though it’s winter—not the best time for pictures of the vineyard.”

“But I’m not painting the vineyard. I’m painting the people.”

“She said something about that, but I don’t see how a picture of Eli fondling the grapes will sell wine.”

“She also said you don’t listen to her.” Dixie shook her head. Her hair swayed gently with the motion. “There are thousands of good wines out there. Yours may be the best, but how do you show that in an image?”

“Wine, grapes, the vines themselves—they’re strong images. A good artist could make them memorable.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I could paint you a picture of grapes that would make teetotalers weep for what they’re missing. But everyone’s seen beautiful pictures of grapes. One more, no matter how well done, won’t identify what’s unique about Louret. Your ads shouldn’t sell wine. They should sell Louret.”

“I’m familiar with the idea of branding,” he said dryly. “But why pictures of people?” He’d heard Mercedes’ reasons—and they were good, or he wouldn’t have signed off on the idea. He wanted to hear Dixie’s take on it.

“Because with a boutique winery, it’s all about the people. You’ve established yourself with your pinot noir and merlot. Your cabernet sauvignon wins awards routinely. But the reds come from your grapes, your soil, unlike the new chardonnay. You want people to understand that they aren’t just buying great grapes when they buy a bottle of Louret wine. They’re buying Eli’s nose and a sip of your mother’s heritage.”

His eyebrows lifted. This didn’t sound like the passionately impractical rebel he’d once known. “Either you’ve gotten into wine or you’ve done some research.”

“Wine does come up when Mercedes and I talk, but yes, I’ve done research. I paint quickly, but I spend a good deal of time researching my subject before I start.”

“What happened to your art?” he asked, suddenly curious. “The noncommercial stuff, I mean.”

She shrugged. “The art world is intensely parochial. If you aren’t playing in whatever stream is fashionable, you aren’t doing ‘significant work’—which means being part of the dialogue between artists, other artists and art critics.”

“You used to like the avant-garde stuff.”

“I still do. I just don’t want to play in that stream myself. I want to do representational art—which is only slightly less damning than doing commercial art. Which I also do, obviously.” She chuckled. “An instructor once told me that I have the soul of an illustrator. He did not mean it as a compliment.”

“Some bastards shouldn’t be allowed to teach.”

“No, he was right. Of course, I think of Rembrandt as a superb illustrator, too.” She grinned. “I’ve never been accused of false modesty.”

Or any other kind, he thought, amused. Pity he found that so attractive. “You don’t find it, ah, stifling to your creativity to work on the commercial end of the spectrum?”

“I’m in a position to pick and choose my jobs these days. I have a good deal of artistic control, and I don’t take work that doesn’t excite me.”

12 След.

Dynasties: The Ashtons

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About the Authors

MILLS & BOON

Note to Readers

Table of Contents

Entangled

Prologue

Chapter One

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