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    Brittany's Castle
    Brittany's Castle
    Brittany's Castle
    Ebook204 pages3 hours

    Brittany's Castle

    By Leigh Michaels

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    About this ebook

    Brittany Bridges and Ryan Masters no longer have anything in common; their marriage is doomed. But Ryan demands that Brittany go along with the pretense for a few weeks more, in return for his cooperation in the courts. So Brittany allows him to move back to the house they once shared -- Brittany's Castle... Leigh Michaels is the author of more than 90 books.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLeigh Michaels
    Release dateNov 17, 2010
    ISBN9781458155207
    Brittany's Castle
    Author

    Leigh Michaels

    Leigh Michaels (https://leighmichaels.com) is the author of more than 100 books, including contemporary romance novels, historical romance novels, and non-fiction books including local history and books about writing. She is the author of Writing the Romance Novel, which has been called the definitive guide to writing romances. Six of her books have been finalists in the Romance Writers of America RITA contest for best traditional romance of the year, and she has won two Reviewers' Choice awards from Romantic Times (RT Book Review) magazine. More than 35 million copies of her books have been published in 25 languages and 120 countries around the world. She teaches romance writing online at Gotham Writers Workshop.

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      Book preview

      Brittany's Castle - Leigh Michaels

      Brittany’s Castle

      by Leigh Michaels

      Published by Leigh Michaels at Smashwords

      http://www.leighmichaels.com

      Copyright 2010 Leigh Michaels

      First published 1986

      All rights reserved

      Cover illustration copyright 2010 Michael W. Lemberger

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Unlike most doctors’ examining rooms, this one was neither sterile white nor institutional green. But despite the cheery wallpaper and the bright furniture, there was no concealing the fact of what it was. All examining rooms smell the same, Brittany thought, with that peculiarly sharp combination of disinfectant and air freshener.

      And I know it even though I can’t smell, she muttered morosely, and sneezed.

      It was the first time Brittany had ever come to the medical clinic which had recently become a part of First Federal Bank as a new service for the employees, and despite the discomfort of her stuffed-up nose, she was intrigued. The clinic was small, but it was well-equipped. There had been no one in the small, comfortably furnished outer room waiting to see the doctor. She wondered if the clinic wasn’t being widely used, or if it was simply so efficient that no one had to wait. Brittany made a mental note to ask the bank vice-president who was in charge of medical services.

      A young woman in a white coat came in with a smile, a clipboard in her hand. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Masters, she said cheerfully, and pulled up a chair. Everything indicates that you’ve simply picked up a nasty head cold. It’s nothing serious — there’s no lung congestion or other complication. So I recommend that you go home and go to bed, drink chicken soup— She smiled wryly. "It really does work. I’ll give you a decongestant to help, but sleep is the fastest cure for the common cold."

      All that’s fine, Dr. Whittaker, Brittany said crisply. But the Governor is coming to dinner tonight, and I have to be on my feet.

      I see. Dr Whittaker looked thoughtful. I don’t suppose you could cancel?

      Brittany shook her head. No. It’s a long-standing engagement. And I have a Foundation board meeting tomorrow, and—

      Goodness, do you ever rest?

      Not often. It gives me too much time to think, Brittany almost added, but she reconsidered. I simply haven’t time to lie in bed and wait out a cold.

      The doctor smiled wryly. In that case, we’ll just have to see if we can get you through it, won’t we? She reached for a prescription pad.

      I appreciate it, Dr. Whittaker. Then, curiously, watching the woman’s slim hand as she wrote the orders, Brittany asked, Aren’t you bored with practicing this kind of medicine? I mean, you’re obviously a very good doctor. I saw your qualifications before we hired you.

      And you, too, are surprised that I settled for cream-puff medicine? Dr Whittaker mused. That’s what some of my colleagues call it, you know. They think all I do is remove splinters and hand out decongestants. She smiled and handed the prescription across the desk. The pharmacy will fill that for you.

      Brittany glanced at it. I really am interested in the clinic.

      The doctor raised an eyebrow. And I’ll bet that’s why you never have time to rest. You’re interested in everything.

      At least, everything about how this bank operates, Brittany said. I must admit, when my father had the brainstorm about putting a medical clinic for our employees right here in the building, I wondered if he’d gone a little crazy.

      As a matter of fact, it was one of the best choices he ever made, Dr Whittaker assured her. Both for the bank and the employees.

      Oh? Brittany’s hazel eyes were intense on the doctor’s face. It was a simple question, but it would have been impossible to avoid answering it. Sara Whittaker wasn’t the first person she’d pinned down by a look.

      Just last week I found a fast-moving cancer, still in the early stages, the doctor said. She sounded a little reluctant to talk about it.

      What happened? Brittany prompted gently.

      The man stopped in on his lunch hour to get an immunization, and as an afterthought asked about a symptom he’d been having. After I’d examined him, I ordered him to a specialist, and within two days the tumor had been removed. There’s an excellent chance that he can be cured.

      Brittany raised an eyebrow. And if he’d waited...

      He probably would have died, Dr Whittaker said baldly. "He didn’t think it was important enough to bother a real doctor about."

      Brittany laughed. Anybody who thinks you aren’t a real doctor hasn’t been watching. But I still don’t understand.

      Oh, I was going to be an obstetrician, said Dr Whittaker. But after a while all newborn babies looked alike to me. I wanted variety. With the employees and their families here at First Federal I have as varied a general practice as it’s possible to get. Besides, I don’t have to worry about office expenses or whether the patients pay their bills!

      Brittany smiled at that. It had probably been her father’s best idea; a token payment for each medical service was withheld from the employee’s pay check, simply to discourage abuse. But the bank itself paid Sara Whittaker’s salary.

      And it gives me plenty of time to spend with my daughter, added Dr. Whittaker, and rose. But I’m boring you.

      Of course you’re not! Brittany’s interest was firm now. I didn’t even know you were married.

      I’m not.

      Oh — I’m sorry. I... Brittany was seldom at a loss for words, but this time she was speechless. It had been a long time since she had put her foot in her mouth quite so firmly.

      The doctor started to laugh. Perhaps I’d better explain. I’m in the process of adopting Amanda.

      Brittany let the silence drag out for a moment, and then asked wistfully, Is it difficult to adopt a child?

      Dr. Whittaker raised an eyebrow. You sound very serious.

      Brittany hesitated. I am. I’ve been thinking about starting a family, and it seemed that adoption would be the ideal way for me.

      Dr. Whittaker smiled. If you’re doing it because you’re too busy to be pregnant... I’m sorry. That was tactless of me.

      Brittany bit her lip.

      The doctor sat down again. Adoption isn’t an easy road. Cute, cuddly babies are hard to find, and as a single parent, I wasn’t even in consideration for one. I waited three years for Amanda to be released for adoption. She’s six years old and slightly handicapped — which makes two strikes against her as far as most prospective parents are concerned.

      I see, said Brittany.

      You’re married, and that’s in your favor. Have you ever been pregnant? It sounds like a prying question, I know, but it’s one the agencies will ask.

      Once. Brittany’s voice was soft with remembered pain. I miscarried in my third month.

      That’s not good, said Dr Whittaker. When it comes to adoption agencies, I mean. It proves that you aren’t incapable of having children of your own, so you’d be further down the list than most. She looked Brittany over carefully. Why not just have your babies the ordinary way, Mrs. Masters? Having a miscarriage so early isn’t unusual, you know.

      Brittany bit her lip. My husband and I don’t live together, Dr Whittaker.

      I see. That does present problems, doesn’t it? She stood up again. I’ll bring you some information from my agency. Heaven knows I collected drawers full of pamphlets while I waited for Amanda. Perhaps you’ll find something helpful.

      Brittany picked up her handbag. Thank you, Dr. Whittaker, I’d like that, she said, and added, with gentle authority, I can give a child a good home, you know.

      That’s obvious to me, Mrs. Masters. But the agencies may not see it the same way, especially if your marriage is breaking up. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but I’ve never believed in sugar-coating reality.

      Honesty is a quality I appreciate. Of course, I hope you’ll keep this confidential.

      That, Mrs. Masters, is the thing I do best. Dr. Whittaker’s voice was cheerful, but there was a small frown between her brows.

      Brittany stopped at the pharmacy to get the pills the doctor had prescribed. A percentage of that cost, too, would be withheld from her next paycheck, with the company picking up the rest. And the result, she saw when she reached the executive floor, was less than an hour of lost time — half of which she had spent talking about adoption. To have gone to a real doctor, as Sara Whittaker had called the physicians in private practice, would have taken all afternoon, and the bank would have lost her services for half a day.

      Not that I’m worth much in this condition, Brittany muttered, and sneezed. She stopped outside the walnut door of her office and, making sure that no one was about, ran a gentle hand across the brass nameplate.

      "Brittany Masters, Vice-President," she murmured to herself. It had such a nice ring, and she had worked hard to earn that title. Harder, probably, than any of the other hundred vice-presidents in the whole First Federal network. They, after all, had only needed to convince the chairman of the board that they were worthy of promotion. Brittany had had to convince her father as well. The fact that Clint Bridges was both chairman and father had not made it any easier for her, despite what a few of the officers of the bank thought.

      At any rate, all that was long behind her, Brittany told herself. The political fighting inside the bank would never vanish completely, but she had proved herself now. In the two years since her coveted promotion had come through, she had convinced most of the skeptical ones that she could do her job, that she hadn’t been given the title only because she was Clint Bridges’ daughter. The ones who remained unconvinced just didn’t matter anymore, she told herself.

      Her secretary looked up with a smile. Feeling better? she asked.

      Of course, said Brittany, and spoiled it by sneezing. That reminds me. I want to find out all I can about that clinic—how it’s doing, whether it’s being used.

      The secretary was jotting notes to herself on her shorthand pad. You had some calls, by the way. The crazy lady in Accounts Payable called again.

      Brittany sighed. What’s she complaining about this time? Did we use more than the usual number of deposit slips last month?

      No. It’s paper towels this time. Six extra cases, which she says is an increase of ten percent. She can’t figure out where they went.

      Tell her the money was extra dirty and the tellers had to wash their hands ten percent more often, Brittany suggested. Why is she calling me about it, anyway? Eric Rhodes is in charge of supply.

      She said he didn’t seem to be interested.

      I can’t imagine why, muttered Brittany. The subject is such a fascinating one. Anything else?

      Mr. Bridges wanted to see you.

      Brittany glanced at the clock and sighed. I’ll go in to see him right now. Pull up the Randolph Corporation’s file for me, please, and check its deposit and loan balances.

      Right away, Mrs. Masters. The secretary looked up, with concern in her eyes, as Brittany sneezed again. You must feel awful.

      Oh, it’s nothing. This, too, shall pass, Brittany assured her, and thought as she walked down the hall, I only hope I’m right. She stopped at the water cooler and swallowed one of the decongestant capsules, then went on toward the lush corner office suite that belonged to the chairman of the board.

      His secretary was on the phone, but she waved a hand toward the door of the executive office.

      In the reception room, the carpet was lush and thick, a heavy pile that Brittany’s feet sank into. But inside the office, the floor was covered with a tightly-woven, low carpet just the texture of a putting green. And across the room, the chairman of First Federal Bank was lining up a golf ball with his putter.

      Brittany waited patiently until the practice shot had been made and missed. I’ve caught you! she announced.

      Clint Bridges sighed. And messed up my shot, he agreed with long-suffering patience. This climate is terribly hard on my golf. I’m thinking of moving the whole bank to Phoenix, or someplace where the sun shines all year.

      Brittany laughed and dropped into a chair beside the huge carved desk. Why don’t you leave the bank where it is and just move yourself to Phoenix or Pebble Beach or Palm Springs?

      Clint Bridges scowled, his heavy white eyebrows drawing together. Are you trying to get rid of the old man, Britt? He sounded a little like a wounded tiger, but it did not frighten Brittany.

      Of course not, Dad. But if you’d be happier, there’s really no reason for you to stay here. Her voice was gentle.

      There was a long, thoughtful silence. Clint sat with one elbow on the arm of his chair, his hand against his cheek. If your mother had lived, he said finally, we’d be in Florida right now.

      Mother wouldn’t have wanted you to bury yourself in this office, you know. It’s been more than a year since she died, Dad.

      Fourteen months, actually. He sounded absentminded. Brittany didn’t doubt that he could, if he chose, tell her precisely how many days had passed since her mother had lost her long fight for life.

      He looked up, with a forced smile. There’s no fun in traveling by myself. It’s lonely down there.

      You might find someone else.

      There was surprise in the way his eyebrows arched. You wouldn’t mind?

      Brittany shook her head. Not if she made you happy. You’re still a young man, Dad.

      Fifty-six my last birthday. Not exactly a kid.

      Just one thing, Dad. I want your promise that you’ll warn me before you marry a teenager and look for a house near a school so you can start another family.

      He crumpled the top sheet of a memo pad and threw it at her. Mind your manners, Brittany.

      She gave him a warm smile. What did you want to see me about? she asked, suddenly all business.

      I can still cancel that dinner tonight, you know, if you don’t feel up to entertaining. Dan Curtis would understand.

      That would be silly. All the work is already done.

      Nevertheless, it is my party, and it isn’t fair to inflict it on you.

      Dad, I’m not going to cancel. You might as well stop arguing.

      All right, on condition that you go home right now and take a nap.

      In the middle of the afternoon? Don’t be ridiculous! It was a wonderful line, with just the right touch of delicate horror at the notion of a career woman needing a nap. If she hadn’t followed it up with a sneeze, it would have been perfect.

      Either that or I call Governor Curtis and tell him we’ll have dinner another time.

      Brittany knew her father well enough to know that it was not an idle threat. Besides, she had to admit that the very thought of her warm bed was an inviting one. All right. As soon as I finish the paperwork on the Randolph file.

      "Now, Clint Bridges said sternly. He punched a button on the intercom. Nancy, have Mrs. Masters’ chauffeur waiting for her. She’s going home."

      Brittany sighed. Yes, boss, she said meekly, and marched towards the door.

      I have a wonderful idea, Clint said suddenly. "How about both of us taking some time off next week

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