An explosively hot, enemies-to-lovers romance from New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates!Arrogant, infuriating, insufferable…
And the sexiest man she’s ever met.
Wren Maxfield hates Creed Cooper, but now she’s working with the wealthy rancher over the holidays! Those strong feelings hide undeniable chemistry…and one wild night results in pregnancy. Now Creed vows to claim his heir. That means proposing a marriage in name only. But as desire takes over, is that a deal they can keep?
From Harlequin Desire: Luxury, scandal, desire—welcome to the lives of the American elite.
Gold Valley Vineyards
HERE’S AN EXCERPT OF CLAIMING THE RANCHER’S HEIR:
Creed Cooper was a cowboy. A rich, successful cowboy from one of the most well-regarded families in
Logan County. He also happened to be tall, muscular and in possession of the kind of good looks a lot of
women liked.
As a result, nearly nothing—or no one—was off-limits to him.
No one except Wren Maxfield.
Maybe that was why every time he looked at her his hands itched.
To unwind that tight bun from her hair. To make that mouth, which was always flattened in
disapproval—at least around him—get soft and sexy and get all over his body.
And he had that itch a lot, considering he and Wren were the representatives for their respective
families’ vineyards. Rivals, in fact.
And she hated him.
She hated him so much that when she saw him her eyes flared with a particular kind of fire.
Fair enough, since he couldn’t really stand her either.
But somehow, years ago, a piece of that dislike inside him had twisted and caught hard in his gut and
turned into an intensity of another kind entirely.
He was obsessed.
Obsessed with the idea he might be able to use that fire in her eyes to burn up the sheets between
them.
Instead, he had to listen to her heels clicking on the floor as she paced around the showroom of
Cowboy Wines, looking like a smug cat, making him wait to hear whatever plan it was she’d come to tell
him about.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked suddenly, her green cat eyes getting sharp.
She was dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that fell to the top of her knees. It had a high, wide neck,
and while it didn’t show a lot of skin, it hugged her full breasts so tight it didn’t leave a lot to the
imagination.
Even if it had, his imagination was damn good. And it was willing to work for Wren. Overtime.
She had on those ridiculous spiked heels, too. Red, like the dress. He wanted to see her in only those
heels.
He wasn’t into prissy women. Not generally. He liked a more practical girl. A cowgirl who would be at
home on his ranch.
Wren looked like she never left her family showroom, all glass walls and wrought iron furniture.
Maxfield Vineyards was the premier wine brand for people who were up their own asses.
And still, he wanted her.
That might be her greatest sin.
That she tested control he’d had firmly leashed for the last eighteen years and made him want to
send it right to hell as he burned in her body.
Of all the reasons to hate Wren Maxfield, wanting her and not being able to do a damn thing to make
himself stop was number one on the list.
He looked around the Cowboy Wines showroom, the barrels with glass tabletops on them, the heavy,
distressed beams that ran the length of the room.
And then there was him: battered jeans and cowboy boots, a hat for good measure.
Everything a woman like Wren would hate.
A testament to just why there was no reason to carry a burning torch for her fine little body.
Too bad his own body was a dumbass.
“I wasn’t listening at all,” he said, making sure to drawl it. As slow as possible. He was rewarded with
a subtle flare of heat in those eyes. “Make it more interesting next time, Wren. Maybe do a dance.”
“The only dancing I’ll ever do is on your grave, Creed.”
The sparring sent a kick of lust through him. They did this every time they were in a room together.
Every damn time. No matter that he knew he shouldn’t indulge it.
But hell, he was afraid the alternative was stripping her naked and screwing her against the nearest
wall, and that wasn’t a real option.
So verbal sparring it was.
“What did I die of?” he asked. “Boredom?”
Those eyes shot sparks at him. “It was tragic. You were found with a high heel protruding out of your
chest.” Her magic lips curved upward and he felt it like she’d pressed them against his neck.
“Any suspects so far?”
“Your own smart mouth. Are you going to listen to me or not?”
“You’re already here. So am I. Might as well.”
He leaned back in his chair and, for effect, put his boots up on the table.
Her top lip curled up into a sneer, and that thrilled him just as much as if she’d crossed the room to
straddle his lap. Okay, maybe not just as much, but he loved that he got to her.
Cindy Reads & Writes 