Some characters’ stories just need to be told. Ashley Rivers was one such character. She came to me so clearly while writing her brother Harrison’s story, THE RICH MAN’S BABY, that I had to give her one of her own. And who better to rattle a perfect rich girl’s cage than a wild man. Thus was born Wilder Huntington MacDougal V -- Mac for short, and Wild Man to those who know him best. I had so much fun with those two, it was almost criminal. I hope you enjoy them, also.

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CHAPTER ONE

Bike shorts are padded, right?

The inane question was the only coherent thought Ashley Rivers could form, as she stood frozen in her descent of the grand, freestanding staircase in her family’s mansion.

Granted, the fact that a strange man in full bicycling gear with a bright yellow mountain bike hoisted on his shoulder had strolled through the front door first thing in the morning, without so much as a knock or call of hello, was shocking enough. But for that man’s skintight biking shorts and mud-caked short-sleeved Lycra shirt to hug his big, muscular body the way it did...well, it was little wonder Ashley found herself growing warm in her cream Chanel suit and incapable of thought. She practically gaped as he angled his body, well-defined muscles bunching and stretching, to close one of the oversize, dark oak, front doors behind him.

Having always preferred polish and sophistication, not to mention proper manners, Ashley should have been repulsed. She wasn’t.

Far from it.

The mud splatters and dark whisker stubble on his square jaw enhanced his rugged, chiseled features the way the best makeup enhanced a woman’s looks, and had, no doubt, been much easier to acquire.

He glanced up, his gaze as startling and disconcerting as his unexpected entrance and attire. His hazel eyes were the exact golden-brown of the sun-lightened streaks in his dark-brown hair hanging beneath his bicycle helmet to his collar.

Then he smiled at her.

Ashley almost dropped her day planner. His even, white teeth, and a broad grin that created deep grooves in his cheeks and a warmth in his eyes gave his looks the impact of a backboard shattering slam-dunk. The light in his gaze increased to an unmistakable, sizzling heat when he looked her over from head to foot with obvious deliberation, pausing significantly on her breasts and legs.

"Well, good morning, gorgeous." His deep voice rumbled its way up to her and made her heart do something it had never done before in her entire thirty years--skip a beat.

"Good--" Her voice sounded horribly strangled. She cleared her throat and started again. "Good morning." The ridiculous tenor of her voice was enough to shake her out of her hormonally induced stupor.

Her brain working again, she flipped open her day planner with practiced efficiency and scanned the day’s schedule. Nothing about her receiving anything via messenger. Besides, what sort of messenger let himself into the house?

Belatedly realizing she should be concerned, she leaned toward the rail and checked to see if Donavon, their houseman, was anywhere in sight. And while it was barely past seven in the morning, surely someone else, perhaps her grandmother, or her only sibling, Harrison, and his wife and son, should be up and about.

An early riser, her father would normally be in his den right off the large foyer, occupying himself with the management of the Rivers family’s huge portfolio, since he’d turned over the running of Two Rivers Industries to her older brother six months ago. But Dad was out of town, playing host to a charity golf tournament she herself had put together, and wouldn’t be home until next weekend.

Ashley returned her attention to the man eyeing her with far too much undisguised interest. Used to more subtle appreciation, she grew uncomfortable. The last man to so blatantly admire her, Roger Benton, had actually been calculating her net worth when they first met at a charity wine auction. She was, after all, the unattached daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Oregon. The ache of a heart that had been slow to realize Roger’s true focus was a potent reminder to steer clear of such men.

She allowed herself the indulgence of the slightest frown. Crude gold digger or not, it would be impolite to scowl. Determined to be the mannerly, devoted daughter her father had once assumed her incapable of being, Ashley strove to never be impolite. "May I help you?"

The man glanced at his bike, then shrugged it off his shoulder. "Nah. Got it handled. This bike’s my baby."

His baby’s knobby, rubber wheels bounced when they hit the foyer’s once pristine black and white marble tiles and sent mud splattering as far as the round, carved marble table with its large flower arrangement in the center of the foyer. The pale yellow day lilies that made up the bulk of the arrangement bobbed as they were soundly decorated.

She pursed her lips and pulled her pen from its sleeve in the day planner. In the 8:00 to 8:15 a.m. space she wrote:

Reorder foyer floral arrangement.

She looked up in time to see him prop his filthy bike against the mahogany wainscoting. Her frown deepened despite herself. Her father loved this house, having been built by his own father to provide a home for all the members of the Rivers family, present and future. While her father accepted his grandson’s wear and tear on it with surprising good humor, he wouldn't appreciate her allowing a stranger to mar so much as an inch of the place.

Before she could suggest that his bike was better suited to waiting outside on the circular driveway, the man said, "I could use some breakfast, though. Nothing like an early-morning off-road 20k--not counting the trek back up the gully I slipped down, of course--to get a guy’s appetite up." He gave her another all-too-thorough look. "Though there are some things I’m always hungry for."

Ashley blinked. Surely he couldn’t be implying--

An unaccustomed heat blossomed in her cheeks. She pulled in her chin. She never blushed. Never. Even when she’d found her almost-fiancé, the man she’d loved, in bed with another woman and overheard his plans to use her for her money she hadn’t blushed. Shook with so much anger and humiliation she’d barely been able to get the words out to end their relationship, yes, but she hadn’t blushed. Now, especially, she always made sure she was far too well prepared to be so affected.

The fact that this unscheduled visitor could have such an effect on her set her in motion.

Clutching her open day planner to her chest like the shield it was, she came the rest of the way down the stairs, rounded the foyer table and firmly asked, "May I ask who, exactly, you are? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before." Though she strove to keep her tone polite, she was certain he’d catch the censure.

After all, he had simply walked into her family’s home and appeared to be making himself comfortable. While making her uncomfortable. She would have been notified if any early-morning, 20k-minded visitors were expected. And who in their right mind would enter someone else’s home in such a muddy state?

If he didn’t have an excellent explanation for his presence he was about to find himself out the door and glad for his padding.

He stepped toward her, his expression definitely hungry, his sensuous lips curled salaciously.

Ashley violently wished she’d stayed on the stairs. While he had looked big from above, he was enormous on the same level. Without heels, she was considered on the tall side at five feet nine inches, but even with the sling-back, two-inch heels she was wearing this morning she had to crane her neck back to look him in the face.

She also had to marshal all of her old world girls’ school etiquette training not to fidget under the intense appreciation in his gaze, reminding herself of the unmalleable Three P’s--Propriety, Presentation, and Principle--that had turned her into a woman her father could be proud of, one he would love. Normally the reminder helped, but even Roger had never looked at her with as much heat during their eight months together, and her own temperature rose with alarming velocity.

While she always took care to look her best so no one would doubt her capabilities, she had a hard time believing she looked that good. So there was no reason for her to be so...so...affected by this man’s attention.

A corner of his mouth curled upward and she felt an answering tightening in her stomach. "Oh, if we’d met, sunshine, there definitely would have been pleasure, and you’d remember it."

His deep, rich and extremely provocative tone, not to mention his words, were like a warm, moist finger traveling up her spine, and it was all she could do not to shudder in the oddest sort of pleasure.

She took a hasty, and regrettably obvious, step back and pretended to consult her schedule while she struggled to gather her normally reliable wits about her. This man had the unique ability to unsettle her as easily as his filthy bike had muddied the foyer. Because her role in life had been to keep everything settled since her mother’s death nearly three years ago, she needed to regain her control and send the fellow on his way. But first, in the 7:45 to 8:00 a.m. block she wrote:

Consult with Donavon regarding household security.

Slipping the pen back where it belonged and closing the day planner with a snap, she said, "Yes, well..." She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders and offered him her hand. "I’m Ashley Rivers. And you are...?"

"Charmed." He enveloped her hand in his big, warm grasp and gently, with unbelievable sensuality, squeezed. "And enthralled." One of his rather wicked looking dark brows arched slightly beneath the shadow of his bike helmet. "Maybe even a little smitten. But I am most definitely--" he regained the step she’d placed between them and leaned toward her "--starved."

For the barest of seconds Ashley thought he might kiss her. The warm, minty scent of his breath unaccountably overrode the impact of his mud smell, and instead of skipping a beat, this time her heart raced in expectation--something else it never did.

He didn’t kiss her, though. He pulled back, released her hand and asked, "Where’s the kitchen?" before strolling off toward the long hall that paralleled the large foyer and led to the back of the house, his molded-sole biking shoes making an unusual clack on the marble floor.

Her hand trembling ever so slightly despite her best effort, Ashley reopened her day planner to the day’s date, took out her pen and in the 7:15 to 7:45 a.m. block wrote:

Take extended cold shower.

###

Mac beat as hasty a retreat as he dared from the unexpected and potentially disastrous complication to his plan.

Damn it. How could he have forgotten Harrison had a sister? Because while he’d heard her name, he’d never met her, that’s how. No man with a pulse could forget meeting Ashley Rivers.

Holy haggis, the woman was Grace Kelly, part two. Polished and poised on the outside, with her golden-blond hair pulled into a perfect bun, her flawless, even features accented with just the right amount of makeup and her jewelry obviously expensive but not overdone.

Yet the spark in the blue-green depths of her beautiful eyes...he knew in his gut after being in her presence all of five minutes that on the inside she was as strong as steel and just as fiery when heated. The sensual possibilities made him hot.

But she would rat him out in a heartbeat.

She was a creature of her world. A creature he knew all too well. He shook his head in disgust, the bitterness he’d been nursing these past weeks bubbling. He’d learned his lesson.

Following his nose to the kitchen, Mac lengthened his stride when he heard the click-click of Ashley’s heels as she came after him. No way would a woman like her let him get away with an entrance--and exit--like that, not without pressing for details.

Right now he couldn’t supply any. Her looks had thrown him for a loop when he’d come through the door, and instead of doing the simple thing by supplying her with a random name, all he could think to do was come on to her. A natural enough reaction, he supposed, considering how her tailored cream suit coat accentuated the fullness of her breasts and her slim waist. The matching, above-the-knee length skirt drew the eye to her curvy, long legs right down to her cream, sling-back pumps. Man, what a view he’d had while she’d been up on the stairs.

Judging by her pink-cheeked, wide-eyed reaction to his mild flirting, Miss Ashley might be in need of a little excitement in her life. He certainly was never adverse to excitement. Had sworn to make it his goal in life, he thought grimly. Though the fact that making her blush had made him feel like he had scored a goal in a World Cup soccer match wasn’t so bad, either.

Coming up with any old name but his own and a decent reason for invading the Rivers estate would have been smarter, but a more appealing idea formed in his sleep-deprived brain. Keeping Harrison’s obviously repressed society sister flustered would be an excellent way to keep her from figuring out who he was.

While the confining upper-class social circles he was obliged to inhabit were on the opposite coast, based on what Harrison had said about his younger sister’s big-time charity pursuits, Mac didn’t doubt for a second that Ashley Rivers knew the name Wilder Huntington MacDougal V. And why he should be in New York suffering under the glare of scandal instead of hiding out on the outskirts of quaint little Plainview, Oregon.

He’d had a hell of a time slipping away from the tabloid press, and the last thing he wanted was some society-page sweetheart dropping a dime on him.

"Excuse me, er, sir," Ashley called in such a commanding yet exceedingly polite tone he stopped his trek down the never-ending, sun-washed hall lined with French doors on one side and noteworthy works of art on the other. He turned slowly so he could control his urge to tell her to go away.

He couldn’t believe she was still being so polite. By now, any of the MacDougal women would have called him a colorful name, tackled him and sat on his head until he came clean about who he was and why he was there.

The flustered look on Ashley’s beautiful face as she screeched to a halt out of his reach almost made him take pity on her. Almost.

"I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist that you tell me who you are and what business you have here in my home, at this hour, and in that--" she waved her thick, black leather, antiquated day planner at his grubby riding gear "–that...state."

Realizing he still wore his bicycle helmet, he slowly peeled it from his head and shook out the hair he hadn’t taken the time to have cut before he’d bailed out of New York. He needed to come up with a story to get her off his back, but he was distracted by how tightly she’d pulled her gorgeous golden hair into its bun at the base of her slender, elegant neck.

He stepped toward her. The urge to free her hair seized him. Which was ridiculous. Delectable women were as common as Blue Chip stocks and bonds in and around the MacDougal clan. And he’d never before felt the need to start a campaign to free repressed hair. Nonetheless, his fingers itched.

He leaned closer, catching a whiff of her delicate scent, a designer fragrance he recognized but couldn’t name. Admiring her willingness to stand her ground even though he deliberately crowded her, he said, "Do you like omelets? I make a killer omelet. Let me make you a great big, fluffy one and we can get to know each other the only way a man and woman should. Early in the morning, the spring sun shining through the windows after a long night..."

She blushed vividly.

Gooooaaaal!

But since he had had a long night--flying the red-eye, waiting forever to pick up his mountain bike and other stuff from the oversize baggage check, loading the rented SUV to the gills and arriving at his college buddy’s house so early he’d decided to go for a ride through the woods surrounding the estate rather than disturb anyone--he was too beat to think of anything else to say. And she looked as if she was about to scream for the police. Politely, of course.

Cursing his idiocy for not having come up with some sort of plan beyond hiding out at Harrison’s until after Stephanie’s manipulative lies became apparent and their families stopped planning a shotgun wedding, he stuck out his hand and said on a sigh, "My friends call me Mac."

A freshly dried dirt clod lost its grip on his arm hairs and dropped with an ominous thunk between them.

She eyed his dirty hand, her posture stiff as a board, but her genetically engineered, flawless manners had her reaching for his hand. He engulfed her fair, slender, and delicate hand in his big, dirty paw.

Just when their skin touched and the electricity he’d felt when she’d introduced herself earlier sparked and sent heat straight to his lap, he was hailed from behind.

"Wild Man! You’re here," Harrison exclaimed.

Thank the god of good bagpipes. At last, a man whose brain might actually function around Miss Ashley Rivers.

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