The MD’s Mistress by Joan Hohl
“Why don’t you just go home and leave me alone?”
She spun away from him. “You’re not my keeper. Go back and save someone else’s life.”
Gently but firmly, he grasped her by the upper arm, stopping her in her tracks. “The way you’ve been pushing yourself you need a keeper.” His voice had a ragged edge. Turning to face her, he clasped her other arm. “It might as well be me.”
“I don’t think so,” Becca retorted, a shiver rippling through her when he raised his hand to cradle her face. “You’re the last person…”
“Be quiet for once.” With that he very effectively shut her up himself, by covering her mouth with his.
The Money Man’s Seduction by Leslie LaFoy
“My sources say you paid cash for this building. Where did you get that kind of money, Miss Raines?”
Sources? She considered him again. Finely chiselled nose and brow, a perfectly square, utterly masculine jaw. Dark eyes with lush lashes. And his mouth… His lips might be full and soft in the rare moments he wasn’t scowling. But none of that really mattered now. No, what mattered was drawing a line of acceptable behaviour and then holding it.
“Mr Preston, my personal finances are none of your business.”
“I can find out,” he countered.
“Well, you just put your pet ferret right on that,” she challenged. “Do let me know what he turns up. I’m sure it’ll be fascinating stuff.”
He gave her a long, hard look. “I’m absolutely certain of it.”
THE MD’S MISTRESS
BY
JOAN HOHL
THE MONEY MAN’S SEDUCTION
BY
LESLIE LAFOY
THE MD’S MISTRESS
BY
JOAN HOHL
Joan Hohl is a New York Times bestselling author. She has received numerous awards for her work, including a Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award. Joan lives in eastern Pennsylvania with her husband and family.
Dear Reader,
Hello, dear friend, I hope this finds you well and happy.
The MD’s Mistress is the first in the four-book series, GIFTS FROM A BILLIONAIRE. All four stories centre around a mysterious billionaire who gives four unsuspecting heroines a monetary gift destined to change their lives…and bring them unexpected love.
I hope you will enjoy all of the stories, written by myself and three of my very good friends and fellow authors: Leslie LaFoy, a terrific writer of historical and contemporary stories; Mary McBride, another writer with a large following; and Kasey Michaels, a writer known for her contemporary, historical and mystery stories. This talented lady happens to be one of my very best friends…in addition to being very funny.
So, there you have it, gentle reader. I sincerely hope you enjoy all four books…starting with the one you are now holding in your hands.
My best always,
Joan Hohl
To the gang: Kathie, Marcie, Leslie and Mary.
Thank you all for being my friends. Life would be
duller without the four of you wacky ladies!
Love you all.
Prologue
And to wrap up our first column of the New Year, darlings, that delicious rumor has bubbled to the surface yet again. Remember the one about the reclusive billionaire who anonymously surprises the worthy with tax-free million-dollar checks each Christmas season? Well, boys and girls, it would seem that last year was no exception.
Or so we hear.
This time, however, our rumor’s got a new twist.
Supposedly, our RB—that’s Reclusive Billionaire, darlings—actually starts small, sending anonymous gifts throughout the year to each of those who have impressed him in some way, then sits back to watch what happens next.
Continue to make Santa happy, and maybe there’s a cool million in your Christmas stocking. Do those who don’t continue to live up to RB’s unknown standards get a sack of coal? Or perhaps just a note saying, “Sorry, maybe next time you’ll be nice, not naughty.” Details! We need details!
Who knows exactly how this generous Santa operates? After all, this is only the latest whisper on the same rumor that’s been tickling our fancy for years. Your favorite columnist, who would be moi, is still on the story but, so far, all of Santa’s helpers have been mum.
In the meantime, you read it here first. It could be fiscally sound to be nice this year, darlings!
The clipping was muttered over, then dropped to the already crowded desktop.
“Yes, I saw that one, too, Uncle Ned,” said the man sitting at ease on the other side of his wide teak desk. “We see a handful of stories in one form or another after every holiday season. Are you worried? Do you want to discontinue the program?”
His answer was a frown that would have most other men ducking for cover under the closest chair.
This man merely smiled, and shook his head. “No, I didn’t think so. You’re such an old softie, Santa.”
One
It was raining. Again. It wasn’t a downpour, but a gentle rain, wet just the same, and chilly.
Becca, shoulders hunched with exhaustion, trudged back to her lodging, such as it was in the tiny African village that everyone, including God, seemed to have forgotten.
After over eighteen months in the village, Becca was beyond weary. There were times when she wasn’t sure she could keep going, but the people needed her as much as the small hospital, which had been built by the generosity of American philanthropists. And she had come to love the people, especially the children, with their sweet faces and innocent dark eyes.
Rebecca Jameson had been an O.R. nurse at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital for several years before volunteering to go serve in this small hospital in Africa. Working ten, twelve and sometimes as many as fourteen hours a day, every day, was beginning to wear on her.
Becca knew she should heed the advice of just about everyone urging her to accept a replacement and go back to the States for a long rest. But since Dr. Seth Andrews, the very talented but equally arrogant surgeon, had all but demanded she go, she stubbornly refused to leave.
Grateful for about the hundredth time for being advised to bring boots with her, Becca slogged along the squishy ground, her mind replaying the long shift she had moments ago completed. She sighed. For some reason Dr. I’m-The-Boss-And-You’re-Not Andrews had been exceptionally cranky throughout the entire day.
Head lowered, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Becca frowned as her sight became gray, darker than the overcast sky. What—
It