href="#u4560be48-a5bf-59cd-bebe-26007a4c850e">
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dani Collins
In my heart, my books are always dedicated to my husband and kids, my sisters and my parents. They’ve always been incredibly supportive, both emotionally and physically, by doing dishes and making meals so I could write.
When it comes to writing dedications, however, I often look to my editors. Writing is a lonely business. I’m a big enough control freak that I don’t ask other writers to look at my work and weigh in. It’s all on me until I hit “Send.” Then I rely on my editor to ensure I’m not embarrassing myself.
Kathryn Cheshire is my latest wing-woman in the Harlequin Mills & Boon offices. This is our first book together and she’s everything an author wants and needs: warm, insightful and encouraging.
I couldn’t do this without my family or you, Dear Reader, but a great editor is the linchpin in the whole operation. Thanks for being awesome, Kathryn.
SURROUNDED BY OLD money and cold-blooded cynicism for the first part of her life, Melodie Parnell wasn’t half as ingenuous as she looked. In fact, she actively tried to give off an air of sophistication by straightening her curly brown hair into a shiny curtain, adding a flick of liquid liner to downplay her round blue eyes and painting a bold red lipstick over her plump, pink lips. Her clothing choices were classic business style: a pencil skirt, a sweater set and her mother’s pearls.
At the same time, she privately offered people the benefit of the doubt. She believed the best whenever possible and always sought the brightest side of every situation.
That attitude had earned her nothing but contempt from her half brother and more than once resulted in a sting from social climbers and gold diggers trying to get closer to the men in her family. Being softhearted had definitely been her mother’s downfall. But, Melodie often assured herself, she wasn’t nearly as fragile or susceptible as that. The fact that she’d lost her mother very recently and kept slipping into a state of melancholy as she faced life without her didn’t make her vulnerable.
Yet, for some reason, Roman Killian took the rug right out from under her—by doing nothing except answering the door of his mansion.
“You must be the indispensable Melodie,” he greeted.
She was supposed to be immune to powerful men in bespoke outfits, but her mouth went dry and her knees went weak. He wasn’t even wearing a suit. He wore a casually tailored linen jacket over black pants and a collarless peasant-style shirt, three open buttons at his throat.
Not that she really took in his clothes. She saw the man.
He had black
