Heiress Lori Granger looks like a million bucks--and is famous for giving much of her fabulous fortune away. But her generosity has outstripped her checkbook, and not even her glamorous image and come-hither eyes can save her now. Certainly not with Jackson James in the picture . . . Hired by her dad's estate to control her spending, this CPA with linebacker shoulders and gray flannel suits invades her space, insults her dog, and refuses to loosen his grip on her trust fund. Worse, he seems immune to her charms--unless she's close enough to kiss. Not a man to cross the line with a client, even when the attraction is hotter than a pair of Lori's highest sling-backs, Jackson agrees to help her find a husband to fulfill a condition of her father's will. Yet sharing her dreams with him makes Lori wonder: Could this infuriating Mr. Straight be the one to make them all come true?
Release date:
February 10, 2009
Publisher:
Forever
Print pages:
292
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Jackson shifted his heavy briefcase to his left hand and pressed the doorbell. A woman in a uniform answered the door. “You’re
the accountant?” she asked.
He nodded and extended his hand. “I’m Jackson James, thank you.”
“Miss Granger will be right down.”
He followed the housekeeper into a room lined with oil paintings and mirrors.
“Tilly, I have your favorite drink,” said a musical voice just before the body attached to it entered the room. “Whiskey,
a double—” Big blue eyes met his in consternation. “You’re not Tilly.”
Whoa! He caught a scent that reminded him of the sweetest tease. So this was Lori Jean Granger in the flesh. She looked and smelled
good enough to eat. Her skin looked like cream, her lips a deep pink rosebud currently set in a moue of unhappiness, her blonde
hair hung just past her shoulders like a silk curtain. Her white cotton dress with tiny red dots skimmed over breasts, which
reminded him of ripe peaches, and down over the feminine curves of her waist and hips to just above her knees. She wore red
high heels, the kind of heels that could give a man wicked fantasies. They were the kind of shoes a man wanted to see a woman
wear when she wore nothing else . . .
ACCLAIM FOR LEANNE BANKS’S PREVIOUS NOVELS
When She’s Bad
“4½ Stars! Banks again wields her magic pen, transforming bad girl Delilah and handsome hero Ben into fully realized characters,
with hopes, dreams, and histories that have made them who they are. With humor and insight, this supreme storyteller cuts
to the heart of her characters’ fears and in-securities and makes us fall in love right along with them.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Sassy, snappy, sexy fun!”
—Susan Andersen, author of Coming Undone
“Banks is at the top of her game with this tale.”
—Booklist
“When She’s Bad is a perfect romp! Leanne Banks writes smart and sexy.”
—Patricia Rice, author of Mystic Rider
“[A] zesty, dialogue-driven tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is a fun book and the sex sizzles . . . Delilah is a wonderful character. Snappy, smart, sexy—she says the things we
all wish we would have thought of.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“I thoroughly enjoyed this tale from start to finish. A highly entertaining read . . . Banks proves that being bad can be
very, very good.”
—RoadtoRomance.ca
“A wonderful story filled with romance and humor. When She’s Bad had me laughing out loud at some parts and sighing at others. Grab a copy and settle down for a great read.”
—BookLoons.com
Some Girls Do
“Every girl from eighteen to eighty will love Some Girls Do!”
—Janet Evanovich
“A witty feel-good read with charming characters and a page-turning plot.”
—Booklist
“4½ Stars! From Philadelphia’s Society Hill to honky-tonk Texas and back again, everything feels right in this story of three
misfits who help each other’s dreams come true. This story, full of love and pain and quiet humor, is told by an author at
the top of her game.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Banks’s prose sparkles with energy and heart . . . the story strikes a true vein of gold.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Some Girls Do is irresistible! A stay-up-at-night read that keeps you laughing under the covers. Charming, witty, fun—I urge you to read
Some Girls Do.”
—Joan Johnston, New York Times bestselling author
“A fantastic book, a book that will leave you feeling fulfilled and with a deep sense of happiness . . . I’m sure you’ll experience
a bevy of emotions, the last being a smile on your face . . . Leanne Banks does a superb job.”
—RoadtoRomance.ca
“Banks has crafted a story with romance, mystery, suspense, and lots and lots of heat! . . . The characterization is outstanding.”
—BookLoons.com
“An enjoyable contemporary romance starring several delightful characters . . . fans can bank on this author providing a wonderful
tale of love.”
—AllReaders.com
“Lively writing, appealing, well-drawn characters, and a wealth of insightful, often hilarious, pithy quotes courtesy of the
heroine’s late mother add sparkle to this story.”
—Library Journal
“An engaging road story . . . Banks gives us a funny, alluring romance with just the right amount of sizzle for a summer read.”
—Oakland Press
“High heels weaken men’s knees.”
—SUNNY COLLINS
“Congratulations, Jackson. Because of your hard work and dedication, we’ve decided to offer you a junior partnership with
the firm.”
Jackson stared at his boss in surprise. Exhilaration pumped through him. Twelve years ago, he’d been a high school dropout
doing manual labor at a ranch in southwestern Texas. He’d moved to Dallas and done everything from waiting tables, to working
as a part-time rodeo clown, to being a janitor in the evenings to earn his way through college and get his CPA.
Despite his father’s insistence that Jackson would never amount to anything, he had. This moment proved his father wrong.
Jackson was a success.
It took a moment for him to find his breath. “Thank you, Mr. Hollingsworth. I don’t know what to say.”
Mr. Hollingsworth, a fifty-eight-year-old balding man with a shrewd, creative, but always law-abiding mind, nodded. He removed
a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his shiny head. “You’ve earned it. Your salary will increase by twenty-five
percent, you’ll receive an annual bonus, and you can hire an assistant. You’ll also be offered Mr. Till’s office. He’s retiring,”
he explained.
Jackson immediately calculated the difference in his salary, and three investment possibilities came to mind. He’d shared
an assistant with the other CPAs until now, and Mr. Till, who appeared to be approximately three hundred years old, had a
corner office.
This was the stuff of fantasies for a dirt-poor kid from southwestern Texas. This was like winning the lottery. This was the
pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
He watched Mr. Hollingsworth’s head turn shiny with perspiration and felt an itchy sensation. That same itchy sensation had
kept him alive in dark alleys and rowdy bars. That same itchy sensation had kept him away from troublesome females. That same
itchy sensation had kept him from being gored by a bull.
It was the same itchy sensation that warned him: if it looked too good to be true, then it probably was.
Mr. Hollingsworth smiled at him nervously.
Jackson’s stomach sank. Oh, shit. Whenever Hollingsworth smiled, there was trouble. Big trouble. He remembered the audit he had managed for one of their larger
clients, who had neglected to disclose all their financial activities for a tax return. It had taken months of work to keep
the guy out of prison.
Mr. Hollingsworth cleared his throat. “You know we think a lot of you. You’ve earned the respect of all of the partners and
all the clients you’ve worked with.”
Cut to the chase, Jackson wanted to say. He would have to assess the risk. Life was all about risk. If he could do whatever dirty work the
firm wanted him to do, then he could claim his prize.
“Of course, with additional reward comes additional responsibility. We, the partners and I, have carefully evaluated our client
list, and we believe you are the man to handle the Granger account.”
“The Granger account,” he echoed in disbelief. The Granger account was one of the firm’s top five accounts. Compared to the
Granger account, everything Jackson had done had been chicken shit. He knew a few things about the account, but not much,
because old Mr. Till had kept Harlan Granger’s financial matters close to the vest.
“As you know, Harlan Granger died six months ago, and most of his estate is being held in trust for his daughter, Lori Jean,”
Hollingsworth said.
Jackson hadn’t ever met Lori Jean personally. He’d just seen photographs of her in the paper at charity functions or at her
home while she posed with a prissy white dog that was probably fed filet mignon every night. Blonde, with a melt-in-your-mouth
body, the woman was a looker, but she didn’t appear to have much upstairs.
Hollingsworth cleared his throat. “Since Mr. Till has retired, you’ll be in charge of managing the estate.” He cleared his
throat again and fingered his tie as if it were choking him. “Some changes in the conditions concerning the dispersal of the
trust have recently come to light.” The senior partner of the firm rubbed his nose and shrugged. “All in the files. You should
go ahead and get started on them so you can meet with Miss Granger as soon as possible.”
The itchy sensation climbed up the back of Jackson’s neck again. Something about this just wasn’t right. “What about my other
clients?”
“Don’t worry. They’ll be temporarily reassigned. I’m sure you know the Granger account is one of our largest accounts.”
So, why were they giving it to him instead of one of the more senior partners? Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets and decided to test Hollingsworth’s desperation. He’d learned a long time ago that
people would spend a lot of money to protect whatever they held dear. Jackson knew Hollingsworth held the Granger account
very near and dear.
“It sounds as if this could be more demanding of my time and energy than what I’ve been doing here at the firm,” Jackson said.
Hollingsworth slowly nodded. “You could say that.”
“Do you think it might be more appropriate to give me a raise of thirty percent?”
Hollingsworth paused, then mopped his head and cleared his throat. “I think it could be arranged.”
Jackson didn’t know whether to shout in victory or brace himself for the depths of hell. If Hollingsworth was willing to fork
over the bucks, things must be in a helluva mess.
Three days later, Jackson stood on the grand porch of the mansion where Harlan Granger had spent most of his days since he’d
hit the big time as an oil baron. He was one of the few who’d managed to survive and thrive during the rough times, and he’d
done it by diversifying. By the time he passed away, Harlan owned a bit of everything.
Taking in the elegant architecture of the whiter-than-white building, large columns, polished brass fixtures, and well-kept
porch, Jackson couldn’t help remembering the shabby house where he’d lived as a child. The tin roof had leaked, the floors
were warped, and it was a wonder the faulty wiring hadn’t caused a fire. The hot water system was busted more often than it
was working, so cold showers were the norm. He fought a twinge of feeling out of place. For a sliver of a moment, he was thirteen
again, without a degree in accounting, wearing hand-me-down torn jeans from the local Goodwill store instead of the Brooks
Brothers suit he’d bought on sale.
He didn’t belong here.
Jackson thought of Lori Jean Granger. She probably didn’t know what a cold shower was, and he was certain her home had always
been warm when it was cold outside and cool when the summertime heat hit.
She also, however, hadn’t learned to manage her pocketbook, and by the looks of her accounts, he was going to have to teach
her. It had taken some persistence, but he’d finally cracked Hollingsworth. Now he knew why no one else wanted this account.
And he was still shaking his head over it. He’d imagined every possibility but the one Hollingsworth finally coughed up. As
he’d begun to suspect, the woman scared them. Not, however, because she was a raging bitch, but because she was this sweet,
helpless woman that men just couldn’t say no to—like she had some mystical power over them or something. Jackson rolled his
eyes. A Lorelei of accountants, with the ability to sink their careers into the bottom of the ocean. By the looks of her accounts,
Till had rarely said no. Jackson snorted. Well, Till had been a fool. Jackson wasn’t . . . and he would have no problem saying
NO to Lori Jean Granger.
He shifted his heavy briefcase to his left hand and pressed the doorbell. Within a moment, a woman in a uniform answered the
door. “You’re the accountant?” she asked.
He nodded and extended his hand, a memory of his mother flashing through his mind. She had been a maid, and she’d told him
everyone, including the garbage man, deserved courtesy. The lesson had stuck. “I’m Jackson James, thank you. And you’re?”
She blinked in surprise. “I’m Mabel, thank you very much.” She accepted his hand and shot him a considering glance that gave
him the odd sense that she could see everywhere he’d been since he was born. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“New to Miss Granger,” he said.
“I thought so. Please come into the parlor. Miss Granger will be right down.”
Hearing the echo of his shoes on the gleaming marble entryway, he shot a quick glance at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling
and the double stairway leading to the second floor. He followed the housekeeper into a room furnished in cherry and walls
lined with oil paintings and mirrors.
“Tilly, I have your favorite drink,” a young woman said in a musical voice just before the body attached to the voice entered
the room. “Whiskey, a double—” Big blue eyes met his in consternation as the woman carried her prissy dog tucked under her
right arm and in her left hand Tilly’s drink. “You’re not Tilly.”
Whoa! He inhaled and caught a draft of a scent that reminded him of the sweetest tease. So this was Lori Jean Granger in the flesh.
She looked and smelled good enough to eat. He could see why those doddering old fools would be falling all over themselves.
But he wasn’t a doddering old fool. Her skin looked like cream, her lips a deep pink rosebud currently set in a moue of unhappiness.
Her blonde hair hung just past her shoulders like a silk curtain. Her white cotton dress with tiny red dots skimmed over breasts
that reminded him of ripe peaches and down over the feminine curves of her waist and hips to just above her knees. She wore
red high heels, the kind of heels that could give a man wicked fantasies. They were the kind of shoes a man wanted to see
a woman wear when she wore nothing else.
Jackson pulled his brain out of its death spiral headed straight for his crotch and hardened his heart before another part
of him turned hard. He met her gaze and extended his hand. “I’m Jackson James. I’ve been assigned to handle your account.
Mr. Till has retired.”
She frowned. “I didn’t realize.”
Jackson nodded. “It was a surprise to a lot of people.” But not to the partners, since Mr. Till had royally screwed up.
She shot him a troubled glance. “Oh, well, would you like some whiskey?”
She looked as if she could use it. He shook his head. “I don’t drink on the job.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” She glanced around and set the drink down on a table and turned back to him. “Mr. James, then.” She
shifted the dog to the other arm and shook his hand. “I’m Lori Jean. It was kind of you to make a house call. I do need to
arrange for some additional funds.”
“We should discuss the status of your trust. You’ve talked to your attorney?” he asked.
She gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat. Yes, I talked with Clarence. He said something about the possibility of
a more recent will.”
“That’s right,” Jackson said, wondering if she was truly in the dark or if she was acting. It didn’t matter, he thought as
he opened his briefcase and pulled out three fat files. He was ready to turn on the light. “A more recent will has been found,
and your father stipulated that half of the trust will be given to you when you’re thirty and the other half when you reach
fifty-five. Until then, you’ll be given a sizable annual allowance. Unfortunately, you’re twenty-four years old and you have
spent your allowance through your twenty-eighth birthday. Some adjustments will have to be made in your spending.”
She blinked at him. “Are you sure? I probably spend too much on clothes, but most of my money goes to charitable foundations.”
She lifted her shoulders and smiled. “I’m a philanthropist. Tilly always found a way to squeeze some money out of the trust
for me.”
That was why Tilly had retired. Tilly had skated a fine line of getting the firm in trouble over how much he had allowed the
Granger babe to get her well-manicured fingers on.
“Mr. Till didn’t have the information regarding the final will.”
“So are you saying that my father left me all this money, but I can’t touch it even for a good cause?”
“Exactly. You may live in the house and you will be taken care of, but there is a limit to the amount you are allowed to spend.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and she absently stroked her dog. “But what if it’s for charity?”
“There is still a limit.”
She gave a sigh of impatience. “But this is what I do. I’m a philanthropist. I fund worthy causes.”
“Not when you don’t have the funds.”
“What am I supposed to do until I turn thirty?” she demanded.
“You still have two years’ worth of allowance. If you budget your money—”
“Budget!” she echoed. “My father had so much money he couldn’t spend it fast enough. I can’t spend it fast enough.”
“You’ve made an impressive start,” Jackson muttered.
“Budget,” she said again. “I can’t believe this.”
“I can help you. That’s why I’m here.” It hadn’t taken long for Jackson to figure out exactly what his job was and why he
had been chosen. His job was to say no to Lori Jean Granger because no one else could. His job was to teach the woman some real-world restraint, and the reason
he had been chosen was because his bosses knew that when it came to heiresses who spent money with the same ease most people
sent water down the drain, Jackson had no heart at all.
Lori didn’t like this accountant. She frowned as she watched his face, all stern lines and no-nonsense scowls. She wanted
a different one. She wanted sweet old Tilly back. Tilly had chastised her about her donations, but after a double shot of
whiskey, he’d always found a way to loosen the purse strings.
The attorney, Clarence, had left her several messages, but Lori had been away visiting one of her sisters and her brother
in Philadelphia. Ever since Harlan died, she’d been trying to fill up the empty space inside her, but so far, nothing had
worked. Being with her sister Katie and her family had helped a little, but Lori felt useless unless she was helping to fund
her charities.
She had felt useless since her horrible horseback riding accident in college several years ago. She’d nearly died, and it
had taken three surgeries and months of rehabilitation to put her back together again. Riding had been the passion of her
life, and she hadn’t ridden a horse since. First, her father had forbidden it. Now, without him, she was too frightened. Scaredy-cat
is what her sister Delilah would have called her, and Delilah would have been right.
Lori bit her lip and felt the beginning of an unwelcome but familiar edgy sensation. She was one of four offspring, and she’d
gotten lucky with the sperm donor. She’d won the lottery when it came to fathers. Her father had not only loved and adored
her, he’d also been loaded. The only thing he’d requested in trade for his devotion and riches was that she leave her mother,
half sisters, and half brother behind. She’d been willing to hide her contact with her half sisters and brother until the
accident. After that, she just couldn’t hide her desire to connect with them anymore, and she feared that was what had broken
Harlan’s heart.
She’d felt guilty most of her life. Guilty for having a wealthy father. Guilty for having siblings he didn’t approve of.
The nasty, edgy feeling built inside her so that she couldn’t . . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
