Praise for Barbara McMahon:
“Barbara McMahon takes a simple love story—
employer falls for employee—and turns it into a tale filled with romance, heartache and love. While the basis for this novel may be timeless, the issues both Caitlin and Zack face are enough to give this novel the feeling it has never been done before. These two characters rock!” —www.loveromancesandmore.webs.com on Caitlin’s Cowboy
“A great story, The Tycoon Prince is fit for any woman (and perhaps a few men) who wish they’d kissed a few less frogs and had more princes sweep them off their feet!” —www.aromancereview.com
“A fresh spin on some tried-and-true plot elements
makes this story work beautifully—and its outspoken, honest heroine is a delight.” —RT Book Reviews on The Daredevil Tycoon
“Would you read me a story tonight?” little Alexandre asked Matt, slipping his hand into the man’s larger one.
It was startling. The child was without pretension. He said whatever came into his mind. Holding his hand, Matt was swept away with a feeling of protectiveness toward the boy.
How unfair life had been, losing his father when so young. Who would teach him how to be a man?
The sun had set only moments before. Twilight afforded plenty of light to see. The soft murmur of wavelets against the sand was soothing. Stars had not yet appeared but undoubtedly would before they reached the inn. With Alexandre between them, each holding one of his hands, Matt thought how like a family they must appear.
The thought came more and more frequently. He railed against it. He was on holiday. That was all. Looking over at Jeanne-Marie, he was struck by her air of serenity. Content with her life, happy with her child, she cast a spell over him. He wanted that serenity, that contentment.
About the Author
BARBARA MCMAHON was born and raised in the south USA, but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realise a long-held dream of quitting her ‘day job’ and writing full time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, where she finds her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing.
Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at PO Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, USA. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website: www.barbaramcmahon.com
From Daredevil to Devoted Daddy
Barbara McMahon
CHAPTER ONE
THE SOFT SIGHING of the sea as it kissed the shore should have soothed Jeanne-Marie Rousseau, but it did not. She stared at the expanse of the Mediterranean sparkling in front of her. The sun was high overhead in a cloudless sky. The sweep of beach at her doorstep was pristine white, dotted here and there with sun worshippers on colorful towels. To a stranger, it appeared a perfect relaxing retreat. Off the beaten track, St. Bartholomeus was an ideal spot for those seeking respite from the hectic frenetic pace of modern life. To live here year-round would be the dream of many.
To Jeanne-Marie, it was home. Sometimes joyful, but today it held a lingering hint of sadness.
Today was the third anniversary of her husband’s death. She still missed him with an ache that never seemed to ease. Intermingled with that was anger, however, at the careless way he’d treated life—risking his safety every time he went climbing. Now, not even thirty, she was a widow, a single mother and the owner of an inn in a locale that was thousands of miles from her family. She shook her head, trying to dispel her melancholy thoughts. She had much to be grateful for and her choice of residence was hers to make. She shouldn’t second-guess her decision over and over. But sometimes she just plain missed American food, family discussions and longtime friends she saw too infrequently.
Yet this small strip of land reminded her so much of Phillipe, she couldn’t bear to leave it. They’d spent several holidays together, enjoying the sea and exploring the small village. Or just sitting together on the wide veranda and watching the sunset, content to be together, never suspecting it wouldn’t last forever.
And for him there had been the added attraction of Les Calanques, the cliffs that offered daily climbing challenges to men and women from all over Europe.
Her son, Alexandre, was napping. She was alone with her memories and homesickness. She took a moment to sit on the veranda, remembering happier days. The worst of her grief had long passed. Now she could think about their life together, mourn his death and get on with the practicalities of living.
She would have returned to America after Phillipe’s death, but she wanted her son to know his grandparents. Alexandre was all Phillipe’s parents had of their only child, except for the photographs taken through the years. Her own parents came to visit annually. They spent lots of time via computers between their trips. And they had six other grandchildren. The Rousseaus only had Alexandre.
And it wasn’t as if she didn’t love France. It had been her lifelong desire when younger to attend school here and maybe even work for a while. She’d not planned on falling in love with a dashing Frenchman. But love had won out and she’d been living in France for more than a decade now. Those first years of marriage had been so marvelous.
What prompted a man to risk limb and life time and again just for thrills? she asked herself for the millionth time. Challenging himself, he’d so often called it. Scaling mountains with flimsy ropes and gadgets to minimize damage to the rock. As if a mountain would care.
Living with a loving family was enough for her. She’d never understood Phillipe’s passion, though he’d tried often enough to enlist her in it. Idly she remembered the trips around Europe, always with a mountain to climb as the destination. The few times she’d tried it, scared and inept, but wanting so much to be with him, she’d only caused him to become impatient and demanding. It had ended up being better for him to go on his own and leave her to her own devices.
She swung her gaze to the right—Les Calanques, the limestone cliffs that afforded daily challenges to those who liked free climbing. The spectacular scenery of the sea and coast viewed from the cliffs added to their attraction. Of all the places for her to end up—where rock climbers from around the world came. Or at least those who didn’t want to stay in Marseilles for the nightlife. It was quiet as a tomb in St. Bart most nights.
Phillipe had been a dedicated climber, not for him the wild parties that could impair performance the next day. Many shared his philosophy.
She was grateful for that, she thought, idly studying the play of light and shadows on the nearby cliff. Not every single mother had the means to earn a living and remain with her son full-time. And realistically she knew not everyone who went climbing fell to his death. It still remained a mystery to her why people dared life and limb to scale a cliff.
Well, there were other things in life she didn’t understand. Her moment of introspection was over. Now it was time to get ready for the influx of guests arriving in the next few hours. Seven new reservations would fill her small inn. Business boomed in the summer months, with rarely a single room vacant more than one night.