Blackhawk's Affair (Silhouette Desire #1790) [NOOK Book]

Overview

For eight years Alexis Blackhawk believed her youthful, clandestine marriage to Jordan Grant was null and void. But the millionaire oil man had never filed the papers and she was still bound to the man she openly detested…and secretly desired.

She demanded Jordan let her go once and for all. But as the time came to leave her husband, would Alexis be able to walk away?

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Blackhawk's Affair (Silhouette Desire #1790)

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Overview

For eight years Alexis Blackhawk believed her youthful, clandestine marriage to Jordan Grant was null and void. But the millionaire oil man had never filed the papers and she was still bound to the man she openly detested…and secretly desired.

She demanded Jordan let her go once and for all. But as the time came to leave her husband, would Alexis be able to walk away?

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781426800153
  • Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises
  • Publication date: 8/1/2009
  • Series: Secrets! Series
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 193,310
  • File size: 111 KB

Meet the Author

Barbara McCauley is the author of 17 Silhouette Desires on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. Her first Silhouette Intimate Moments, Gabriel's Honor, was released in August, 2000. Her work has been nominated three times for the Best Short Contemporary and also the Lifetime Achievement award. She has received several Romantic Times W.I.S.H. Hero Awards for the heroes in her stories.

A native of California, Ms. McCauley enjoys spending free time in her garden and relaxing with family and friends. The youngest of five children, she discovered early the peaceful satisfaction of daydreams and reading a good book. In addition to her family and a busy writing schedule, she has also found time to serve as co-president of the Orange County chapter of Romance Writers of America.

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Read an Excerpt

Jordan Alastair Grant had built an empire keeping one step ahead of the competition and two steps ahead of his past. he'd been rich, he'd been poor, he'd been rich again. Money itself meant little to him. The exclusive cars, the custom built houses, the private company jet— as far as he was concerned, they were all just props. A means to an end. It was winning that truly made his blood rush. That sharp kick of pleasure deep in his gut when an opponent either threw in the towel or went down for the count.

Business was just a game, he'd always thought. Stocks, oil, investments—each transaction, every endeavor, just another roll of the dice, one more playing piece on the board.

He had the look of power. Six-foot-four, precision-cut, thick, dark hair, the solid, muscled body of an athlete he kept well-toned with daily workouts into his gym. His face, roughly chiseled and hard-edged, had the ability to intimidate with one razor-sharp glance from his bottle-green eyes, or charm with a simple tilt of his firm, wide mouth. His dark slash of brows, depending on his mood, or his need, could cut an adversary at his knees or make a woman swoon.

And if some people might think he was cold and calculating, what did it matter to him? As long as he got what he wanted, he didn't much give a damn what anyone thought.

He heard the landing gear lower on the jet and glanced at his Rolex. Right on schedule.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes, Mr. Grant." Denise, the stewardess, moved toward him from the galley. An attractive redhead with a dimpled, beauty pageant smile and hazel eyes, she was a temporary replacement for Jordan's permanent flight staff.

The pastfew years he'd traveled more often than he liked, but with offices in Dallas, Lubbock and Houston, not to mention the West Coast affiliate, there hadn't been much choice. At thirty-four, he'd had enough of the daily grind of twelve hour days, seven days a week, most of it spent in board meetings or on a plane. Jordan had put the hours and sweat into his companies and other ventures, made his fortune. he'd enjoyed the challenge of it all when he was younger, but he was ready to move on now—or to be more accurate, he was ready to go back.

Back to his roots.

Jordan had been raised on Five Corners— twenty thousand acres of prime East Texas land that included cattle, lumber and oil. Richard Grant, Jordan's father, had been a genteel, socialite Bostonian with connections, but no money. Enter Kitty Turner, Jordan's mother, the daughter of a wealthy rancher with truckloads of money, but no connections.

It was a match—merger—made in heaven. But while Richard may have appreciated and enjoyed the money that came with his marriage to Kitty, he detested everything about ranching and living in East Texas. The isolation, the physical labor, the camaraderie of the "good old boys." Richard had considered Five Corners beneath him.

Lost in his thoughts, Jordan hadn't realized Denise was still standing beside him, asking him something. He glanced up at the flight attendant, realized she'd asked him if he'd like more coffee.

"Thank you, no."

She leaned over him to collect his empty cup.

"Shall I have the pilot notify your driver?"

"Not necessary." The subtle brush of the woman's hand across his arm did not go unnoticed—or the lingering eye contact. "I have a friend picking me up."

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?, He shook his head, watched her turn and slowly saunter away to prepare for landing. He was certain the woman could do many things, but today, he only had one woman on his mind.

One with raven hair, sapphire eyes, endless legs.

He still remembered the feel of those legs wrapped around his waist.

He shrugged off the memory, and the pinch to his pride when those legs had walked out on him. Okay, so maybe it was more than a pinch, he admitted reluctantly. Maybe it was more like the swing of a wrecking ball straight to his gut.

But that was eight years ago. He thought he'd been in love. Worse, he'd thought she'd been in love. It was a mistake he hadn't repeated.

The wheels of the small jet touched down smoothly on the small, private air strip, bumped a bit, then taxied to a stop at the end of the asphalt runway. He glanced out the window, saw the familiar green of the surrounding East Texas forest, ablaze now with fall colors. he'd grown up in those woods, played army and built forts there when he was a boy, broke his arm jumping off a rock into the lake when he was fourteen, and when he was sixteen, crashed his first truck—a brand-new,V-8, 486 silver Ford with black leather interior—straight into a hickory pine. He still had the thin, jagged scar over his left eyebrow where he'd hit the steering wheel with his forehead.

Jordan stared deeper into the thick trees, thought of other experiences in those woods, experiences of a more intense, sexual nature. Memories that would make a schoolgirl blush

She wouldn't like him being here, he knew, but it didn't matter. After eight years, it was just too damn bad what she liked or didn't like.

It was time.

October had always been Alexis Blackhawk's favorite time of year. When the cloying heat of humid summer days began to soften, the nights turned long and cool, the air crisp. As a child, she'd loved the soft yellows of the cottonwoods, the earthy russets of oak, the vibrant orange of roadside pumpkin stands.

At the moment, however, what she especially loved was the shiny red convertible she'd just shifted into fourth gear. With the open road ahead of her, Mary J. Blige on the radio and the whip of the night wind through her brand-new, chic-salon, chin-length haircut, Alexis couldn't help but think, Life is good.

She took the turn off the highway a smidgen too fast, held tight to the wheel as the car skidded sideways. Smiling, she flattened the sole of her Jimmy Choo high heel against the accelerator, spitting dust and gravel off the car's rear tires as she raced down the familiar dirt road leading to Stone Ridge Stables. In spite of the bumps and dips, the sports car handled like a dream, and the power of the engine hummed in her head and sang in her blood. I just might have to buy me one of these when I get home, she thought, though living in New York, it would be frivolous, especially since she wouldn't have much opportunity to drive it, anyway.

Still, she could certainly afford to be frivolous, she knew, and her smile widened. Inheriting millions from a grandfather she'd never known had given her the ability—and the freedom—to be as absurdly frivolous as she wanted. Overnight, she'd gone from two maxed out credit cards, an overdrawn checking account and less than two weeks away from having her electricity turned off, to having more money than she knew what to do with.

Not that she hadn't figured it out quickly, of course. After a three day clothes shopping marathon on Fifth Avenue, she'd found and bought the apartment of her dreams on the West Side. It was as perfect as perfect gets. After she moved in, she intended to do her part to support the Gross National Product by tastefully furnishing every big, beautiful, high-ceilinged room, not to mention filling the walk-in closet in her master suite.

So many shoes, she thought, so little time. Her headlights flashed across a pasture where sleepy cows barely lifted their heads to acknowledge their midnight visitor. At the edge of the stables, she flipped off the radio, then cut the lights as she rolled to a stop in front of the house where she'd been born.

She hadn't been home for a while—over a year—but nothing had changed. For that matter, nothing had changed on her family's ranch in her entire twenty-seven years. Same clapboard white, same black antebellum shutters, same honeysuckle climbing voraciously up the two-story porch columns. She breathed in the scent of it, felt the stillness, heard the nightsong of a mockingbird and the deep croak of a bullfrog.

There were memories here. Some she took comfort in. Others she preferred to forget.

She cut the engine and stepped out of the car, stared at the dark house while she rolled her tired shoulders. Since her sisters and brother weren't expecting her until tomorrow afternoon, they would all be asleep. The excitement of living on a ranch, she thought, shaking her head and smiling. She wasn't sure which was worse— going to bed before 1:00 a.m., or getting up at six.

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