Backfire Read online

  “I Can’t Just Hop Into Bed With

  You Because You Turn Me On,”

  Madeline Said.

  “If it’s what we both want, why not?” Chase countered.

  “Because there are other things that need to be taken into consideration.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that we have to work together. And then there’s my father. He—”

  “Leave your father out of this, Madeline. What’s between us has nothing to do with him,” Chase said, his voice hard, his eyes even harder. “This has to do with you and me. It has to do with sex. My wanting you and you wanting me.”

  * * *

  “New author Metsy Hingle has the talent…the originality, to imbue new life on a very old human emotion, making this work a beautiful love story. Believable yet magical. 4+”

  —Harriet Klausner, Affaire de Coeur

  Dear Reader,

  Established stars and exciting new names…that’s what’s in store for you this month from Silhouette Desire. Let’s begin with Cait London’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Tallchief’s Bride—it’s also the latest in her wonderful series, THE TALLCHIEFS.

  The fun continues with Babies by the Busload, the next book in Raye Morgan’s THE BABY SHOWER series, and Michael’s Baby, the first installment of Cathie Linz’s delightful series, THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT.

  So many of you have indicated how much you love the work of Peggy Moreland, so I know you’ll all be excited about her latest sensuous romp, A Willful Marriage. And Anne Eames, who made her debut earlier in the year in Silhouette Desire’s Celebration 1000, gives us more pleasure with You’re What?! And if you enjoy a little melodrama with your romance, take a peek at Metsy Hingle’s enthralling new book, Backfire.

  As always, each and every Silhouette Desire is sensuous, emotional and sure to leave you feeling good at the end of the day!

  Happy Reading!

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Backfire

  Metsy Hingle

  Books by Metsy Hingle

  Silhouette Desire

  Seduced #900

  Surrender #978

  Backfire #1026

  METSY HINGLE

  is a native of New Orleans who loves the city in which she grew up. She credits the charm, antiquity and decadence of her birthplace, along with the passionate nature of her own French heritage, with instilling in her the desire to write. Married and the mother of four children, she believes in romance and happy endings. Becoming a Silhouette author is a long-cherished dream come true for Metsy and one happy ending that she continues to celebrate with each new story she writes.

  For Linda Hayes-

  My agent and friend, with thanks

  for encouraging me to shoot for the stars and then

  helping me to reach them.

  Prologue

  The branches of the big oak tree swayed under the rush of wind. Chase McAllister pressed his hand against the window, feeling the cold December air seep through the glass and chill his fingertips. He looked at the little white lights that the brothers at St. Mark’s Home for Boys had strung through the tree’s branches for Christmas.

  One. Two. Three. Four. He began counting the lights. Counting the lights was more fun than watching the other kids getting all mushy with their families. He didn’t want to see them climb into the cars and drive away to spend the Christmas holidays with their moms or dads or grandparents. He didn’t want to think about how there wasn’t anyone coming for him.

  Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Chase’s gaze drifted to the big white car that Billy Taylor was getting into. The woman inside pulled Billy to her and hugged him to her chest. Chase looked away. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling that sting behind them again. He wasn’t going to cry, Chase told himself. Crying was for babies. And he wasn’t a baby anymore. He was eight years old. A “little man.” That’s what his mother had called him. And men didn’t cry.

  “Poor little tyke. Guess he’ll have to stay here at the big house for Christmas.”

  Catching the reflections of the housekeeper and her new assistant in the window, Chase swiped at his eyes again. Go away, he ordered silently, willing them to leave. He didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  “But I thought you said all the boys got to go home for Christmas,” the new housekeeper said. “How come he don’t?”

  “’Cause he ain’t got no place to go. His momma killed herself, and he ain’t got no daddy—at least none that claims him. Surely you heard the story,” the older woman said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  Ignoring the two women, Chase watched the car with Billy in it drive off down the street. He swallowed. He wasn’t going to cry, he reminded himself, feeling that achiness in his chest again. He was never, ever going to cry again.

  Fingering the scar along his chin, he went back to counting the lights.

  Nine. Ten. Eleven…

  One

  The place hadn’t changed much, Chase thought as he studied the garden room of the Saint Charles Hotel from his position near the dais. The cloths covering the tables were still made of pink damask and, given their faded appearance, he would lay odds they were the same ones that had covered the tables twenty-six years ago. The fresh flowers on the tables were fewer in number, but the vases holding them were genuine crystal.

  Surveying the crowd of reporters and local bigwigs, who had gathered for the formal announcement of the new partnership between his firm and Henri Charbonnet, Chase frowned. Even the faces and names looked the same, he thought, recalling those Sunday mornings his mother had spent scouring the newspaper’s society pages and pointing out her customers to him. The crème de la crème of New Orleans, she had called them. He doubted that any of them had even known the name of the pretty waitress who had served them their coffee and five-course meals. But she had known their names. She had idolized them, had been thrilled to touch the fringes of their pampered lives.

  And now they were here to see him.

  Of course, their eagerness to welcome him into their privileged midst was due to his alignment with one of their own—Henri Charbonnet.

  Chase shifted his gaze to the object of his thoughts. The years had not been as kind to Henri Charbonnet as they had been to his hotel. The man’s hair was thinner now and nearly all white. His middle had thickened, giving him a portly appearance. He had loomed as a giant in the memory of an eight-year-old boy, but now he appeared almost short against Chase’s own six feet. But the eyes…those hard green eyes that had been so cold and forbidding when they had stared at him from across his mother’s coffin…they hadn’t changed. They were just as cold, just as empty, just as unfeeling as he remembered.

  Henri Charbonnet shook hands with one of the city’s councilmen, then tipped his head back in laughter before leading a group of his friends to one of the serving stations. The hotel’s finest crystal and silver pieces adorned the tables laden with the restaurant’s signature dishes.

  Charbonnet had spared little expense for the press briefing and reception that was to follow, Chase surmised, as he took in the lavishly decorated room. Evidently cost didn’t matter to the man when it was someone else’s money he was spending. Chase gritted his teeth and rubbed his thumb across the two-inch scar that stretched across his chin. Enjoy your little kingdom while you can, old man, he thought. Because it won’t be yours for much longer.

  Chase shifted his gaze to the doorway where the guests continued to filter into the room at a steady pace.

  Then he saw the brunette.
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  Despite her small size, she was a hard one to miss in that red suit. The fabric skimmed nicely rounded curves and fell several inches above her knees on legs that seemed impossibly long for a woman who couldn’t measure more than five foot four.

  Nice, Chase thought. He appreciated the female form as much as the next man. And while he had never been a man who got overly excited by big-breasted women, legs were another story.

  Chase smiled as he took another look at hers. The brunette definitely had a great pair of legs. Slowly, Chase inched his gaze upward from the expensive red pumps to the mouth painted the same shade of cherry red as her suit. A mouth made for kissing, he thought idly.

  The rest of her face wasn’t bad, either. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not by movie-star standards, but she was pretty all the same. She greeted several people and seemed to scan the crowd in search of someone. With her face turned to the side, he couldn’t quite make out if her eyes were green or blue. The thick cocoa-colored hair fell in a smooth and chic line just below her chin and was a great foil for her skin. Ah, and what skin, Chase thought as he studied her. The color of rich cream, it looked as soft and delicate as the petal of a rose.

  An expensive rose, Chase decided, catching the flicker of diamond studs when she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. She smiled at something the pretty boy in the Italian suit said, her luscious mouth curving up sweetly at the other man.

  She’s out of your league, McAllister, a voice inside him taunted. This rose was one sweet, tempting little package with all the class and breeding her daddy’s money could buy. And no doubt if she hadn’t yet landed herself a rich husband to pick up where daddy left off, she soon would.

  “Mr. McAllister.” One of the newspaper reporters approached him and introduced herself. The smile the woman gave him reminded him of a cat, a big hungry cat. “I know you can’t divulge the details of your firm’s purchase of stock in the Saint Charles, but can you tell me if it’s true that Majestic Hotels plans to invest several million dollars in the renovation of the hotel?”

  So the rumor mill was already buzzing. “My firm plans to invest a considerable amount of money in renovating the property,” he said, favoring her with one of his lazy smiles. Using his smile to charm others had been one of the first tricks he had learned in the foster home circuit, and it had served him well in the hotel business. People liked dealing with a person who smiled. And women especially seemed to like his. “But how much the renovation is going to cost has yet to be determined,” he said noncommittally.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chase watched his expensive rose weave her way through the crowd with the pretty boy in tow to where Henri Charbonnet and his group stood. She greeted him and several of those gathered with a kiss on the cheek in the fashion so typical of Southern women.

  “What about the actual running of the hotel? Word has it that Majestic likes to bring in their own general managers. Is that why you’re here? Do you plan to take over as the new general manager of the Saint Charles?”

  Chase pulled his attention back to the reporter. His assessment of the woman as a cat was evidently on target, he decided. And from the hungry gleam in her eye, this one probably had sharp claws. Evidently she smelled another story behind Charbonnet’s decision to sell an interest in the family’s legacy to an outsider.

  But it was a story he had no interest in telling. He had his own agenda where Charbonnet was concerned and had no intention of meeting someone else’s…no matter how tempting. “Now, Bitsy,” he said, addressing her by the first name printed on her name tag. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Oh, just a hunch.” She gave him an assessing look and Chase suspected she liked what she saw. “But I can see you’re not going to tell me anything more. So what’s the official line on your involvement here?”

  He gave the woman his best smile and watched it take effect. “My role at the Saint Charles will be to oversee the implementation of new reporting and reservation systems, linking the hotel with Majestic’s mother systems. And I’ll also be working to get the renovations under way.”

  “And Henri Charbonnet’s role?”

  “Henri Charbonnet is the hotel’s executive director, as well as one of its owners. But I suspect you already know that. Majestic plans to work very closely with him in the operation of the Saint Charles.”

  “What about his daughter, Madeline?”

  “What about her?” Chase tossed back, resisting the urge to check on his rose.

  The reporter cut a glance to Henri Charbonnet, then looked back at him. A thin smile spread across the reporter’s lips. “Well, I understand Madeline wasn’t very happy about her father’s decision to sell an interest in the hotel…that she had hoped to take over the operation of the Saint Charles herself someday,” the woman continued. “I was just wondering if you or Majestic Hotels saw Madeline’s position at the hotel as a problem.”

  He had given little thought to Madeline Charbonnet when he had been making his plans. He had noted her name on the list of the sales department’s employees and dismissed it. He assumed she was one of the reasons the place was operating in the red. The fact that she had not attended the staff meeting he had held the previous day and had been missing from the sales department—on vacation they saidhad confirmed his opinion of her as a spoiled little rich girl playing at the hotel business. If the daughter was anything like her father, she would have only contributed to the financial drain. He had simply added her name to the list of problems at the hotel that he would need to fix. Of course, he had no intention of telling the reporter that. Instead, he simply replied, “I don’t see Madeline Charbonnet as a problem at all.”

  Excusing himself from the reporter, Chase headed in Charbonnet’s direction. He told himself he simply wanted to get this dog-and-pony show on the road, that it had nothing to do with the brunette standing beside the older man. Stopping just behind Charbonnet, Chase waited for him to finish his conversation before suggesting they get the statements to the press out of the way. And he used the moment to study the brunette.

  Damn if that skin of hers didn’t look even softer close up, he thought. Even her voice matched. It was all velvety and soft as she made plans to meet pretty boy for breakfast the next morning. Unable to resist, Chase gave her legs another once-over. Definitely roses. The long-stemmed expensive variety.

  “McAllister.” Charbonnet stuck out his hand, motioning for Chase to join him. He made quick introductions of the men, then turned to the brunette. “And I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Madeline. Madeline, this is Chase McAllister with Majestic Hotels.”

  He should have seen that one coming, Chase admonished himself. Quickly, he schooled his expression, looking at Madeline Charbonnet more closely.

  The black-and-white newspaper photographs he had seen of her through the years—clips of her as a debutante, a maid for the old-line carnival clubs and society darling—none had done justice to the woman who stood before him. They hadn’t revealed that the lips now pressed together in a tight line were so full and sensuous or that the eyes set in that perfect oval face were such a deep green. The newspaper photographs certainly hadn’t prepared him for the fact that those green eyes would be a mirror of everything she was feeling.

  And right now, judging from the fire flashing in those emerald gems, Chase had no doubt that Madeline Charbonnet would like nothing better than to deck him.

  The thought amused him and Chase smiled, which only seemed to make those eyes of hers grow even darker. But he had to give her credit because instead of slugging him, she extended her hand. “Mr. McAllister,” she said, her voice as cool as the February wind that whipped at the flags flying outside of the hotel.

  Chase bit back the urge to laugh at the regal tilt of her chin. “Ms. Charbonnet. It’s a pleasure. And please, call me Chase.” Damn if her skin wasn’t every bit as silky and soft as he had imagined. She even smelled like roses.

  And no doubt she came with her own supply o
f thorns, a voice inside Chase warned. Before he could dwell on that thought further, the ear-piercing shrill of a microphone being flipped on sliced through the room.

  Madeline pulled her hand free. She took a step back, then turned to Charbonnet. “Father, I believe they’re ready for you and Mr. McAllister to take your positions at the podium,” she told him.

  “Would you like to join your father and me at the podium for the announcement?” Chase asked.

  “No.” Madeline’s faced flushed an angry red. “Thank you, but no. The Saint Charles belongs to my father and…and to Majestic Hotels.”

  “I know. But you’re still welcome—”

  “Mr. McAllister, I don’t want to join you and my father at the podium. If it had been my decision, there would be no need for an announcement today.”

  “Madeline, that’s enough,” Henri Charbonnet said firmly.

  So the reporter had been right. Madeline Charbonnet hadn’t been happy about her father’s decision to sell. In fact, she was out-and-out furious.

  “Madeline, apologize to Mr. McAllister for your rudeness,” Henri ordered.

  Madeline looked as though her father had slapped her. She tipped up her chin. “I have nothing to apologize for. Mr. McAllister and his firm have no right to own a part of the Saint Charles. It belongs—”

  “Madeline Claire—”

  Chase touched the other man’s shoulder. “Forget it, Charbonnet. It doesn’t matter.” Guilt prickled at Chase momentarily, but he pushed it aside. Charbonnet was the one who had robbed her of her legacy. Not him. He had merely supplied the means. The fact that the deal would serve his own purposes didn’t matter. Ignoring the shimmer of tears in her eyes, Chase hardened his heart. “Then I guess it’s fortunate for Majestic Hotels and me that the decision to sell the Saint Charles wasn’t yours to make.”