Any errors or alterations in the technical aspects of this book are not the fault of my technical advisers but mine, most often license to create a strong story, and I appreciate the readers’ indulgence.
I have a couple of early readers who never fail to offer insight and commentary that very often change and invariably improve the story—thanks to my daughter, Jamie Prosser, and to Kate Bandy. Kate has been reading manuscripts for me for almost forty years and has never once complained! And a very special thanks to my dear friend the lovely Kristan Higgins who brings light into my life and work.
Special thanks and appreciation to my husband, Jim, for your unwavering support, for being a sounding board, for your patience and commitment. I love you.
Thanks to Liza Dawson, my agent, for your brilliance, loyalty, tender loving care, wicked sharp wit and, most of all, friendship.
And my thanks to Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Margaret Marbury and Nicole Brebner, Harlequin’s A-team, for providing this magnificent opportunity. I will try every day to deserve the honor.
And thanks to everyone at Harlequin. There are a lot of fingerprints on my books. I’m having a good time, loving my work, while all of you do the heavy lifting. Thank you for the quality work, the sincere commitment, the quality product. Nobody does it better.
Swept Away
by Robyn Carr
One
When she walked into the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport, heads turned. Not just the men’s, but the women’s, as well. Jennifer was used to this; she did not come by her fabulous looks by accident. Trim, tan, blond, leggy, buxom, with a face that could stop time, she drew the attention of everyone she passed. She went to the counter and recognized the agent, a woman she’d seen several times before. “Hi, Elaine. Jennifer Chaise, here to meet Mr. Noble for the Las Vegas flight.”
“He hasn’t checked in yet, Ms. Chaise, but you can board if you like.”
“Thank you, but I’ll wait until he gets here.”
“Why don’t we go ahead and load your luggage to save time?” she said.
Jennifer gave a nod and a smile, glanced over her shoulder to the skycap who had followed her with her bags, and then went to a leather sofa in the waiting room. From there she could see the terminal entrance.
As she waited for her gentleman friend, Nick, to arrive at the airport, Jennifer reminded herself that not all that long ago she’d been a girl who couldn’t afford a bus ticket. Now she was a woman waiting for a private jet. Who would’ve guessed?
The private jet sent by the MGM Casino Resort would whisk them away to Las Vegas, where they would spend a few days. Nick was what was known as a Whale—a high-stakes gambler. She assumed he lost as well as he won because at least four times a year the MGM would send their Gulfstream to pick him up. But, according to them, gamblers never lost. And, despite the fact that he was married, Jennifer was the woman who accompanied him on these trips.
Jennifer was something of a gambler herself, but she didn’t wager money. She put herself on the line, betting that she could keep someone like Nick Noble so enchanted by her charms and beauty that he would be a generous suitor. It required quite a lot of skill and confidence. The skill she had acquired over time, but the confidence always threatened to elude her. Sometimes she was required to fake it. All the people who ogled her were completely unaware that beneath the veneer of wealth and glamour beat the heart of an uncertain girl who had come from nothing.
She reached over her knee to smooth her two-thousand-dollar eelskin boots over her shin—they were as soft as butter and were her favorite. There was a time years and years ago, when she was eight or nine years old, that her mother picked through a Dumpster, where she’d seen a pair of discarded shoes just about the right size for Jennifer. That had been an especially bad patch for them. Maybe that was what had fostered her passionate love of footwear. These boots were sage-colored and perfect with the cream skirt and jacket she wore; the skirt was short with a strategic slit up the left side and the jacket buttoned just under her breasts to emphasize her cleavage.
If it were left up to her, she might choose a lower heel, but Nick, for some strange reason, preferred that she look as tall and long-legged as possible. She was a respectable five foot five, but any one of her collection of high heels so exaggerated her height that she appeared five ten. The irony was that Nick was not tall. He was a short guy—maybe five-seven—and had a real thing for tall, thin blondes. No short-man complex there. In fact, Nick probably thought he was six-two. His ego was at least that big.