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Chills skipped up her spine, but she forced herself to stand straight and greet this next hurdle straight on. Deep breath in … slow exhalation. But even that failed to calm her racing heart or lessen the knocking of her knees.
As for offering a serene smile—she wasn’t about to attempt one. Only a fool would smile at the shark swimming toward them.
Henry’s voice drifted to her, so clear she knew he was standing in the corridor outside the waiting room door. “Miss Tate is in her father’s office. If you’ll come this way, sir?”
“That will be all,” replied a deep, masculine voice that ground Delanie’s thoughts to a screeching, nerve-grating halt.
No! Her mind must be playing cruel tricks on her.
But there was no mistaking that husk of an Italian accent that she hadn’t heard in ten long years except in her dreams. That she’d never wished to hear again.
“Sir,” Henry sputtered. “I insist I be on hand …”
“Leave us!” The clipped order blew open the lid on painful memories she’d tucked away long ago.
The man from her past was here. Was he the corporate raider? The man with the wherewithal and the ruthless bent to strip everything from her?
Her gaze swept the room to find a way out, her pulse racing so fast she was lightheaded. Were the walls closing in on her?
No, just her past.
About the Author
For as long as JANETTE KENNY can remember, plots and characters have taken up residence in her head. Her parents, both voracious readers, read her the classics when she was a child. That gave birth to a deep love for literature, and allowed her to travel to exotic locales—those found between the covers of books. Janette’s artist mother encouraged her yen to write. As an adolescent she began creating cartoons featuring her dad as the hero, with plots that focused on the misadventures on their family farm, and she stuffed them in the nightly newspaper for him to find. To her frustration, her sketches paled in comparison with her captions.
Though she dabbled with articles, she didn’t fully embrace her dream to write novels until years later, when she was a busy cosmetologist making a name for herself in her own salon. That was when she decided to write the type of stories she’d been reading—romances.
Once the writing bug bit, an incurable passion consumed her to create stories and people them. Still, it was seven more years and that many novels before she saw her first historical romance published. Now that she’s also writing contemporary romances for Mills & Boon she finally knows that a full-time career in writing is closer to reality.
Janette shares her home and free time with a chow-shepherd mix pup she rescued from the pound, who aspires to be a lap dog. She invites you to visit her website at www.jankenny.com. She loves to hear from readers—e-mail her at [email protected]
Recent titles by the same author:
ILLEGITIMATE TYCOON (Bad Blood)
CAPTURED AND CROWNED
INNOCENT IN THE ITALIAN’S PASSION
PROUD REVENGE, PASSIONATE WEDLOCK
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Innocent of
His Claim
Janette Kenny
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
“IT’S done.” Henry returned the telephone to its austere black cradle with a decisive click, his face as stoic as the marble busts in David Tate’s executive office in central London. “The takeover of Tate Unlimited is complete.”
Delanie sat perfectly still and stared across the desk at her father’s massive, empty chair. Most women thrust into her situation would be a puddle of tears. Fretful. Scared. But she felt curiously numb. Detached, as if she was watching someone else go through the death of a parent, the subsequent ordeal of a swift hostile takeover of his corporation and now a very uncertain future.
Though she’d been unable to display grief at his funeral, she had at least shown respect. Considering her relationship with her father, even that was a lot.
“My bid to exclude the house and my family’s personal assets?” she asked, holding onto the hope that she had salvaged something from her father’s empire.
Henry, who’d been her father’s attorney for as long as she could remember and who she’d affectionately called Uncle Henry all of her life, shook his head, his papery lips pulled into a thin line that sent her hopes plummeting. “All gone. However the new owner has trumped your bid to buy Elite Affair with a counter offer.”
“What does he want?” she asked.
Not that it mattered. Her only means to negotiate a deal in the first place hinged on selling the vintage cars. But those were gone, leaving her with nothing tangible to trade or sell.
“His solicitor wouldn’t say, stating the owner will inform us of the details upon his arrival,” Henry said.
Of course, more waiting. More drama added to this corporate piracy.
She huffed out a weary breath and pushed to her feet, smoothing her dress over her hips. Fittingly, she was garbed in a somber black Dolce and Gabbana
