The Virgin Mistress. Linda Turner

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The Virgin Mistress - Linda Turner Mills & Boon M&B

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**

      746—DADDY BY DESTINY **

      756—GIFT-WRAPPED DAD

      770—THE HUNK & THE VIRGIN

      798—COUNTDOWN TO BABY

      813—FOUR REASONS FORFATHERHOOD

      850—FATHER FEVER **

      858—FATHER FORMULA **

      866—FATHER FOUND **

      882—DADDY TO BE DETERMINED **

      953—JACKPOT BABY

      MILLIONAIRE, MONTANA

      MEET THE MAIN STREET MILLIONAIRES

      Shelly Dupree—Owner of The Brimming Cup Coffee Shop

      Sam & Ruby Cade—Army Officer (him), Mercantile Co-owner (her)

      William Devlin—Owner of The Heartbreaker Saloon

      Henry Faulkner—Retired Hardware Store Owner

      Jack Hartman—Veterinarian

      Finn Hollis—Retired Librarian

      Dean Kenning—Barber

      Honor Lassiter—Mercantile Co-owner

      Kyle & Olivia Mason—Farmer (him), High School Teacher (her)

      Nathan & Vickie Perkins—Doctor (him), Stay-At-Home Mom (her)

      Sylvia Rutledge—Owner of The Crowning Glory Hair Salon

      Gwendolyn Tanner—Boardinghouse Owner

      Contents

       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

      Prologue

      Shelly Dupree leaned her elbows on the old oak bar that ran the length of the Heartbreaker Saloon and wished she could consume enough alcohol to achieve the rosy glow some of the regular patrons were already sporting at five minutes to seven. But as a chef, she found taste too important to ignore when eating or drinking. And the bite and burn of Scotch or bourbon just didn’t do it for her. She’d been toying with the same glass of gewuürztraminer wine for an hour. Dev Devlin, owner of the saloon, stocked it just for her and served it with a flourish despite the teasing hoots and hollers of their friends.

      She stared moodily at her reflection in the mirror hung behind the bar between two paintings of nudes, one reclining on lace, the other playing cards with a gentleman on her bed. Well, Shelly presumed he was a gentleman.

      She refocused on her own face and thought she didn’t look like a loser. Serious hazel eyes peered back at her, taking in short dark brown hair parted on the side, and an unexceptional but nicely symmetrical heart-shaped face. A pink turtleneck sweater, all that was visible above the bar, covered breasts that would never earn her a job at Hooters, but didn’t require a push-up bra, either. She looked like an upwardly mobile young woman having a drink with her friends after a successful day at the office.

      The truth, however, was that nothing in Jester, Montana, was upwardly mobile, particularly the merchants trying to make a living there. She was almost three months behind on her coffee-shop rent and was now on a cash basis with her suppliers of meat, produce and paper goods.

      Several years of drought had decimated Jester, population 1,502, located on the eastern edge of the state near its border with North Dakota. To anyone passing through, the area was just a long expanse of rolling hills and dusty bluffs, and downtown Jester was but a two-block-long collection of charmingly antiquated buildings reminiscent of its pioneer history.

      But to Shelly, Jester and its people were everything. She’d spent two years at the Culinary Institute of America in Chicago, and one year working as a sous-chef in the dining room of a Los Angeles hotel. But the other twenty-five years of her life had been spent in or around The Brimming Cup, a coffee shop her parents had owned and operated on Main Street since before she was born. It had become hers four years ago when her mother died of cancer, and her father followed six months later with a broken heart.

      The people of Jester, who’d always been her friends, became her family. They continued to eat breakfast and lunch in the coffee shop, brought her the latest news, discussed world events with an enthusiasm unfettered by consideration for politics or political correctness, and simply made her want to stay.

      She’d once had dreams of opening a fine-dining establishment in a big city, of imagining that the man of her dreams would walk in one day, fall madly in love with her and provide her with the sense of security and belonging that had died with her parents. She had work and her friends, but they went home to their families at night. She went home to Sean Connery, an old tabby tomcat who’d walked out of a snowbank last winter. When she’d opened the back door to offer him a saucer of milk, he had taken it as an invitation to move in.

      Her parents had been loving but practical people, and they’d taught her that pipe dreams amounted to nothing and only hard work yielded positive results. So she stayed in Jester, knowing she’d miss home too much if she left. And there was no man out there for her, anyway. They were all married or looking for supermodels.

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