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A fast-moving, dramatic California saga about the people--Spanish, Anglo, Mexican and Indian who struggled, fought, made mistakes, loved and survived to build the foundations of the Golden State:
The Bastard
The Interloper
The Dancer
The Rebel
The Fixer
The Deceiver
The Wild Card
Genre: Historical Romantic Suspense
Book 7: The Wild Card
Natalia Ausmus flew home from Jamaica accompanied only by her bitter suspicions. She didn't ever want to see Ross McCann again. Or Theodora, for that matter. It was hard to blame Fenton who, really, had been betrayed, too. Though, after years of enduring Theodora's other lovers, perhaps it no longer bothered Fenton. As far as Natalia was concerned Fenton was more or less a cipher, a zero, a nothing.
Theodora, Natalia was sure, had planned the entire scenario--Ross riding his bike to the cliff house at the cove, where he was sure to meet Natalia; his laid-back play for her; the trip to Jamaica.
I was supposed to fall in love with him, Natalia thought with a grimace. Maybe even marry him so Theodora could control me through him. How ruthless she is!
Ruthless enough to set a trap for me in that sea cave?
Natalia shuddered at the memory. While she couldn't bring herself to believe her near escape from death had been more than an accident, she knew she'd never trust Theodora or Ross again. Or even Fenton.
At the same time, she meant to conceal her mistrust. No one knew she'd caught Ross in Theodora's embrace, her abrupt return to California was excused by her traumatic experience while snorkeling and she'd said nothing to the contrary. So, for the moment, she was one up on her cousin. Much as it galled her, she'd do well to be polite to both Theodora and Ross and keep her disgust and anger to herself.
How could she have been so stupid as to have believed Theodora's mid-life crisis spiel? Or been taken in by Ross's phony charm? Natalia intended to make damn sure it never happened again.
A chauffeured limousine, courtesy of Burwash, Incorporated, met her at Los Angeles International Airport and drove her to the big house at the ranch, where Dee was staying while she was gone.
Dee took one look at her and immediately called a doctor. Natalia was in bed for the better part of a week. Coral cuts, the doctor informed her, were not to be dismissed lightly.
She slept poorly, usually waking at dawn. When she felt better, despite remaining aches and healing cuts and Dee's disapproval, Natalia decided on an early morning horseback ride. It'd been too long since she'd ridden over the land--her land--on her Arabian mare, Chichi. She needed to renew her bond with her heritage because now she meant to fight to the death to keep it. Theodora wasn't going to win this one.
The sun was hidden by morning fog when she set off from the big house, heading southwest, her spirits raised by Chichi's responsive eagerness. How could riding a motorcycle possibly compare to mounting a living animal, an intelligent horse who knew the land better than you did, who enjoyed the ride as much as you did and shared her enjoyment with you?
Natalia passed the ruins where, now that she knew about them, the troubles and tragedies of the past hovered as tangibly as the scent of the white roses. Had Diarmid Burwash married Concepcion Gabaldon solely to acquire the land? And, if so, had she known she was being used by Diarmid? Natalia raised her chin. She'd never again be used by any man intent on furthering his own interests!