The Inheritance Test Read online

  Charlotte tugged him down toward her.

  He went willingly, wrapping his hands around her back.

  “This is just to shut you up,” she told him.

  Declan’s own mouth curved in an answering smile.

  He kissed her deeper. There wasn’t an inch of space between them and he liked that. He lost himself in a kiss that was better than anything he’d ever felt before.

  When he finally pulled back, her eyes were closed, a flush of pink on her cheeks, all of her soft and trusting. He held on to her, not ready to let go.

  “Wow.” She bit her lower lip when they finally pulled back and stared at each other. “That was something. It’s a good thing we got that out of our systems.”

  As if. He smoothed her hair back from her face. “We’re not done. All you have to do is tell me what you want. Anything you want.”

  Dear Reader,

  “Cinderella” is my guilty pleasure. Prince Charming, the most popular, fabulously wealthy man falls in love with a hard-working, optimistic, down-on-her-luck woman. He comes with a castle accessory! Even better—writes she who buys far too many clothes imagining places to wear them—Cinderella gets a glamorous (and free!) makeover with hair, shoes and a ball gown.

  Charlotte Palsgrave isn’t looking for Prince Charming when movie star Declan Masterson makes a guest appearance in her life. She’s too busy cleaning up after a failed relationship and a really, really bad year at work. But Declan recognizes the someone special Charlotte hides behind the quiet facade and the plain clothes—and he wants the whole world to see her, too. So he makes her a deal: he’ll provide the makeover and she’ll get the resources she needs to take care of a very large problem at work.

  But like Cinderella, what appeals most is that Charlotte doesn’t ever change fundamentally. She’s still a strong, bright, optimistic woman dealing with the challenges life sends her way—and she comes out on top and makes her own happily-ever-after. And along the way, it may just so happen that Declan’s heart undergoes the biggest, most magical makeover of them all.

  Happy reading,

  Anne Marsh

  Anne Marsh

  The Inheritance Test

  Anne Marsh writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances, because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in North Carolina with her two kids and five cats.

  Books by Anne Marsh

  Harlequin Desire

  The Inheritance Test

  Harlequin Dare

  Ruled

  Inked

  Her Intern

  Hot Boss

  Hookup

  Have Me

  Hold Me

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  You can also find Anne Marsh on Facebook, along with other Harlequin Desire authors, at Facebook.com/HarlequinDesireAuthors!

  For Lillie (and Pinto and Ava).

  Your tweets are a very bright,

  happy light in my week.

  Thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Excerpt from Billionaire Fake Out by Katherine Garbera

  One

  “Prove you’re Masterson material in the next ninety days or you’re out.”

  Declan Masterson had never backed down from a challenge in his life, but this one was a shock.

  In the years since his adoptive father J.J. had plucked him and his brother Nash from foster care, dropping them into the exotic world of Hollywood, J.J. had blustered and threatened whenever Declan had failed to live up to the illustrious Masterson standard of a ruthless Hollywood player. In the past, Declan had responded to J.J.’s criticism by going off on another of his wild adventures, but he’d turned over a new, reformed leaf when J.J. had finally named him as his heir apparent.

  “You’d better define out.” He sprawled in his chair, watching J.J. carefully. J.J. looked relaxed in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suit jacket discarded, but underestimating him was like mixing up snakes and celebrities in Hollywood’s famous Runyon Canyon. You only made that mistake once.

  “Fired,” J.J. snapped back. “No longer provisional CEO of Masterson Entertainment. I have an offer to buy this company—and they don’t need you.”

  Much as he pretended it didn’t, J.J.’s criticism stung. Declan’s jaw tightened involuntarily. He’d spent two years under J.J.’s thumb earning the chance to run the family company, to green-light his own projects and make films that would change people’s lives. Despite years learning moviemaking from the ground up—because J.J. would hand him nothing and he earned it or did without—now it could all be taken away.

  Because he wasn’t, and never had been, a true Masterson.

  “I’ve tripled our revenues,” he pointed out. “I’m damned good at what I do. We both know it.”

  Masterson Entertainment produced films in partnership with other major film studios and was about to ink another multi-film cofinancing deal. While Declan could walk away and start his own film studio—his acting career had earned him millions—he’d have to give up projects he felt passionately about if J.J. followed through on his threat to sell. He’d have to start over from nothing.

  He’d vowed he’d never be nothing again.

  J.J. pinned him with a glare. “You’ve made a joke of the Masterson name with your adventures. In the last two years, you’ve free-climbed the tallest casino in Las Vegas, headlined a Megavalanche bike race in the Alps and dove with great white sharks.”

  He’d also run the company and, in the year prior to that, made a blockbuster movie that had outperformed its projected revenue at the box office. Those contributions were outweighed by his reputation as the playboy prince of film.

  Declan couldn’t explain the restlessness that constantly drove him. He simply had to lose himself in intense, thrilling activities. It was a drive that he’d—mostly—channeled into his career as one of Hollywood’s leading action heroes, and now into Masterson Entertainment. But since he could only be on set so much, he also climbed, skied and raced as fast as he could. The more extreme the conditions, the more he loved it. In the past few years he’d earned a reputation as a fierce competitor in the world’s top sailing races. And when there wasn’t a race or a film or a business deal to be made, yes, there were women.

  “Those things would be fine,” J.J. continued, since clearly his definition of fine was the only one that mattered, “in moderation. Instead, you turn everything into a spectacle, with a film crew, ridiculous bets and women. You proposed to an actress by scaling the wall to her hotel balcony. You did this at midnight, in boxer briefs and with a candy ring from a gas station.”

  Declan grinned. “Harry Winston was closed, so I improvised. You left out the part where she refused and the paparazzi caught the whole thing on camera.”


  He’d fallen off the respectability wagon rather publicly that night in Beverly Hills, but it had been funny, at least until the photos had surfaced and his impulsivity had been commemorated in the tabloids and on dozens of celebrity gossip websites.

  Proposing to Jessie St. Chiles, his costar in his last film, had been an impulse. They’d been friends with benefits, but Declan knew he wasn’t marriage material. His own biological father had walked out early and J.J.’s wife had divorced him after just six months of marriage. She’d been long gone before Declan and Nash had arrived at the Malibu mansion. Jessie knew he wasn’t actually looking to get married and they’d both had a good laugh.

  “When people hear your name, they wonder what ludicrous stunt you’ll pull next,” J.J. growled.

  “Which is very on-brand for us.”

  J.J.’s face darkened. “It is—for our film talent and our marketing department. But when you were racing in the Alps two months ago, you were off-grid for two weeks. Our cofinancing deal went bad and we lost a ten-picture deal because no one could find the CEO. You’ve spent more time out of the office than in. No one takes you seriously in the boardroom because the only time we can count on you to show up is for the start of a race. You’re no Masterson.”

  “Not by birth,” he agreed. J.J. had adopted him and Nash at the ages of eight and six. J.J.’s own biological son was estranged. Depending on who told the story, Revere had either left the Malibu mansion at seventeen or been kicked out. Either way, he hadn’t been heard from since.

  J.J. flipped a photograph across the desk. The camera had caught the woman in the picture off guard, her eyes half-closed, lips parted. Late twenty-something with brown hair pulled back in an unremarkable ponytail, she wore a boring, white polo shirt with an embroidered logo. Martha’s Kids.

  “This is the daughter of Bryant Palsgrave, a successful Wall Street investor from one of New England’s oldest families. Wealthy. Discreet. Her brother could be a future president.”

  “Charming,” he said dryly, unsure of J.J.’s angle.

  That kind of stultifying, quiet lifestyle was a pretty prison. Fortunately, old money families wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like him, an actor, recklessly decadent and from a working-class background that J.J.’s adoption could never compensate for. Declan had no problem working his ass off—he’d spent his twenties building his film career, starting as a stuntman and then moving into feature film acting. He’d made a lot of money and been on the cover of magazines, but now he wanted to produce.

  Growing up in Malibu, his neighbors had all been in the industry: movie stars, producers, screenwriters, musicians. The gated homes might cost north of seven million dollars, but when your kid went down the street to play, the mantel held an Oscar or Golden Globe. Bodyguards and luxury cars, with paparazzi lurking behind the well-manicured palm trees and dodging the dog walkers to the stars, were the norm. As a working class transplant, Declan had been shocked and then enchanted. He’d yearned to be part of those beautiful people with a magnetism and presence that marked them as members of a powerful Hollywood tribe.

  J.J. followed the headshot with a glossier sheet of paper, a press release for a New England boat race that made Declan laugh. The participants were sailing two-person keelboats, just twenty-two feet long with a shallow draft and one mast. He’d raced faster and bigger when he’d been a teenager.

  “The race around Martha’s Vineyard next month raises funds for charity. One local and one celebrity per boat. The fastest boat wins the million-dollar prize for the charity of their choice. Charlotte Palsgrave needs a partner and I owe her father a favor.”

  “You’re joking,” he snapped. He raced million-dollar yachts with a full crew in the world’s most extreme weather conditions. No way would he partner with a spoiled, local, blue-blooded princess in what amounted to a glorified dinghy.

  J.J. leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “You will partner with Charlotte and win this race for her—and you will be the perfect Masterson representative. Charming, well-bred, disciplined. There will be no scandals. You will prove, once and for all, that you are a worthy heir to the Masterson legacy and that I can count on you to be where you’re needed. In exchange, I will refuse the buyout offer I have and will sign Masterson Entertainment over to you. You’ll own it, lock, stock and barrel, and you will have sole control.”

  It was just a race, he told himself, and not even a hard one. One lap around Martha’s Vineyard, some photo ops with the blue-blooded princess and he’d be on his way back to Hollywood with the real prize: his inheritance.

  “Win this race,” J.J. said. “And it’s all yours.”

  Declan didn’t know why J.J. had decided to finally back his bid to lead the family company—or why he’d consider selling the precious Masterson film studio. J.J. had a pathological need to be in control. And he loved nothing better than designing a series of challenges for “his boys,” challenges that only underscored how unworthy he thought they were of whatever prize he’d dangled before them. Nash had walked away from J.J.’s tests five years ago, immersing himself in his oil and chemical company. Declan had done the same—until two years ago, when he’d given into temptation and returned. The only thing that had made it tolerable was knowing he could see the finish line—a line that J.J. had just moved. Could he still win this? He thought he could—but he’d also learned a thing or two during his years in Hollywood. One of the most important lessons? Always, always get the deal in writing.

  “Draw up a contract,” he said. “Thirty days. In exchange for no bad publicity and one race win, I get Masterson Entertainment.”

  He wouldn’t lose.

  Two

  Prince Charming and the wallflower, Charlotte Palsgrave told herself. You know how this story goes. But truth was she didn’t. Not anymore. Anxiety had her wallflower self twisted up in well-deserved knots. She swallowed the boulder-sized lump in her throat because if she cried now where people could see her, her secret would come out. For months she’d dreaded discovery and part of her wanted to stand up and scream the truth. To admit I’m sorry. She’d made a disastrous mistake that she regretted with all her heart. This race was her very last chance to fix the damage before it irrevocably hurt other people, so she really, really needed Prince Charming to get on board with her make-up plan. If she’d known just how badly off course life could get, she would have planned better.

  Invested in a pair of kick-ass glass slippers...

  Just in case she’d secretly acquired a fairy godmother, she double-checked her feet. Nope. Her ever-so-practical navy blue sneakers hadn’t been magically transformed. She was still on her own. It was times like this that she couldn’t quite shut out her father’s disapproving voice in her head, a loud, critical voice that she’d never managed to measure up to or please. She’d gotten better at ignoring the voice or even occasionally talking back to it, but that hard-won confidence vanished when she faced a social situation like today’s. Not only was she standing at Martha’s Vineyard’s most exclusive yacht club, but she’d voluntarily agreed to get in a boat in three weeks, race at unspeakable speeds through open ocean off the coast of Massachusetts and do it all in the company of a celebrity Prince Charming, aka Declan Masterson, aka her new nemesis because she desperately needed to win the million-dollar prize and he refused to get onboard with her plans.

  Magicking up a pair of glass slippers would have been easier.

  Mostly because while she preferred to color neatly within the lines, guided by her master plan and a binder bristling with sticky notes, Declan preferred to careen at full speed in random directions.

  Worse, while he looked like a hero on the outside, he was one-hundred-percent nefarious villain on the inside.

  She slanted a glance at where he stood, surrounded by an admiring crowd of yachties and media. This was only partly due to his celebrity status as a Hollywood star and acting CEO of a b
lockbuster film studio—and mostly due to the man’s sheer animal chemistry. He channeled rugged today, his wavy blond hair tousled from tugging his fingers through it. Hazel eyes, a stubble-roughened, firm jaw and the man’s mouth... Well. It was honestly a blessing that when he opened his mouth what came out had her seeing red, because otherwise she would have stopped and stared because the man was a work of art and she felt a sensual tug when she was close. That was a first for her, that overwhelming awareness of a man, the curiosity about what it would be like to get closer. A whole lot closer.

  He must have made some kind of Mephistophelian deal with the devil for that charm he turned on and off at will.

  Just be glad that they’re taking his picture and not yours. The YouTube videos she’d watched on mastering selfie poses seemed entirely inadequate as Declan flashed a killer grin at the nearest lens. Doesn’t matter. She had zero interest in competing for Miss Photogenic in this beauty pageant. She froze in front of a camera. Her life didn’t revolve around pictures and social media and she valued that. She worked behind-the-scenes as the director of the nonprofit Martha’s Kids, creating summer camps for foster kids so they could swim and kayak, swap friendship bracelets and enjoy lighthearted fun. Camp had been her own escape from a less-than-idyllic childhood home, so she loved making the magic happen for these kids.

  “Charlotte,” her golden-haired nemesis called. “Join us.”

  Her feet moved automatically because the man had his own gravitational pull. Oh, God. She was doomed.

  Resist.

  She stopped walking and deployed her secret weapon: the truth. “You don’t need me over there. Thanks anyways.”

  Then she smiled because politeness mattered. Declan stared at her thoughtfully. Great, okay, move right along, big guy. Most people looked right through her, their gaze skipping over her very ordinary face and the medium-length brown hair she always pulled into a ponytail. She didn’t bother with makeup beyond a moisturizer with SPF and her wardrobe consisted of yoga wear and comfortable shoes. She might be dismissed as boring, but she loved herself and felt safe. That was all that mattered.