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Dear Reader,
It has been a real pleasure to take part in the THOROUGHBRED LEGACY continuity series. I love working with characters who are interconnected, whose lives branch out in so many ways. It echoes life, in that everything we say and do matters and touches others.
Though I enjoyed getting to know Patrick, Bronwyn and especially Wesley, the character who most intrigued me was matriarch Louisa Fairchild. I love that she is able to share her life experience with Bronwyn—and that this influences the choices Bronwyn makes. Also, it was fun to be able to introduce Marie LaFayette, whom you will get to know better in the next book. She is a woman of heart; I can’t wait to know her secrets.
I wish you great joy in reading the last books in this series—as much delight as I hope you experienced reading the earlier stories. To you, all good things.
Sincerely,
Margot Early
An Indecent Proposal
Margot Early
MILLS & BOON
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MARGOT EARLY
has written stories since she was twelve years old. She has sold 3.6 million books published with Harlequin. Her work has been translated into nine languages and sold in sixteen countries. Ms. Early lives high in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains with two German shepherds and several other pets, including snakes and tarantulas. She enjoys the outdoors, dance and spinning dog hair.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Catherine Cockburn, who read this manuscript for Australian authenticity; also to Catherine and her husband Keith for being lovely hosts to me here in Colorado. All errors in this fictional work are mine.
Contents
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
Chapter One
It was hot, a March hot where the heat came up from the bitumen in visible waves. Bronwyn and ten-year-old Wesley rode in the front of an ancient Toyota truck— no air-conditioning—and it was broiling. Bronwyn’s straight dark red hair blew dankly around her face, her skin stuck to her khaki slacks and the ripped vinyl upholstery, and Wesley was crying.
He was crying about Ari of course. Because Ari was dead. The only father Wesley had ever known had been in prison for his involvement with a crime syndicate. He’d been murdered in prison.
Sweltering, and certain the Vietnamese driver of the Toyota had emigrated too recently to have much English, Bronwyn spoke freely. “Please don’t waste another tear on him, Wesley,” she told him, which wasn’t something she would have said if her once-white blouse hadn’t been pasted to her body with sweat, if they hadn’t spent almost an hour crawling behind another ute on the winding road with no chance to overtake. Instead, she couldn’t restrain the impulse to tell her only son not to mourn Aristotle. “In fact,” she added, “it’s his fault we’re in this fix. It’s his fault you have to move away from your friends and go to a new school.” Once again, nothing she’d have said most days.
She spared a look at the tearful boy and past him to the driver. Mr. Le at the Asian market in Sydney had found this man for her and imparted the information that his name was Nam and he would drive the three hours to the Hunter Valley, her destination. Wesley sat wedged in the middle of the front seat between Bronwyn and Nam, head down. His hair was lighter than Ari’s and without even a hint of Bronwyn’s auburn. Nor were his eyes like Ari’s dark chocolate ones; they were hazel, not Bronwyn’s green. Just those wild recessive genes, Ari.
Yes.
Wesley held his soccer ball in his lap. He wore his shin guards and cleats and a child-size Socceroos jersey. He had others, as well, other teams, other countries. His dream was to be a professional soccer player. Better than a footballer, in Bronwyn’s opinion, even if Ari had owned a football team. Wesley had picked up the soccer thing from Ari, who had bought him a child-size Manchester United uniform. In any case, Bronwyn had never wanted to discourage her son’s dreams and now regretted that he was going to have to experience practicality the hard way. Not as hard as the way she’d learned as a child, though.
“And,” she continued, forgetting that she’d meant to comfort him, “your last name is Davies.”
“It’s not.” He spoke under his breath, but Bronwyn heard.
“Look, Wesley,” she burst out. “I know this isn’t fun, but we’re going to a place full of people who are probably willing to die for their horses, and I’d rather not share the last name of a man who is known to have been involved with doping them.”
“What does doping mean?”
“Giving them drugs. So they’ll lose or win or—I don’t know. But I do know that the name Theodoros is not going to be a passport to anyone’s friendship at Fairchild Acres.”
Wesley bounced his soccer ball on his knee, and Bronwyn put her hand on top of it. “Don’t do that. You’ll cause an accident.”
“Daddy doesn’t have anything to do with the horses at the racetrack. He told me.”
“Yes,
