Claiming The One (Meadowview Heat 3; The Meadowview Series 3) Read online

  Claiming the One

  Meadowview: Meadowview Heat 3

  Rochelle French

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Also by Rochelle French

  About the Author

  Excerpt, Tempting the One

  Copyright

  Claiming the One

  The Meadowview Series: Meadowview Heat Book 3

  Rochelle French

  * * *

  Liz Pritchard has a fantastic opportunity to ditch her less-than-stellar reputation and become socialite Elizabeth Picard by marrying a man she doesn’t love. To complete the transformation, she return to Meadowview to sell her childhood home. But when the only man who’d ever held her heart shows up on her doorstep, he opens the door to doubt—because erasing her past means erasing everything that was once in her heart…including Hunter Thorne.

  * * *

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  Peace could be so deceiving. Afternoon sunlight streamed over the California coastal range, illuminating the cultivated beauty of the hundred-acre estate in the heart of Marin County. A crowd of three hundred-plus guests, not a single one less than a multi-millionaire, all invited to attend the engagement party for Gerald Callahan and Elizabeth Picard, stood chatting in small groups scattered about below.

  Liz stood on the top level of a multi-tiered limestone terrace, looking out over the gathering crowd, and forced the corners of her lips upward. These people, in their designer dresses and Italian-made suits, nattering on about their stock portfolios and their chalets in Switzerland, would soon be her new best friends. And this manicured property and the thirty-thousand-foot mansion standing behind her would soon be her new home.

  Holy crap.

  A tall woman in her late fifties, with the color of hair only achieved by what had to be a gajillion-dollar set of highlights, came up to her. “May I see the ring, dear?”

  Seemed like more people wanted to see the ring than get to know her. Kinda irritating, but whatever, Liz thought. She lifted her hand upward, turning it to make sure the sunlight caught the ten-carat diamond and sent flashing sparks in an arc. Dots of light shimmered and danced. So freaking pretty. Definitely not cubic zirconia.

  “Oh, my,” the woman said, practically purring the words. “Our Gerald is quite the generous man, is he not?”

  Liz struggled to recall the woman’s name. Gerald would be pissed at her if she couldn’t remember her guests’ names.

  Annoyed.

  He’d be annoyed, she reminded herself, correcting her inner voice. She was to be Elizabeth Picard now, not Liz Pritchard. Elizabeth would never say the word “pissed.” Or “shit,” or “crap,” or “holy fuck.” Those were Liz’s words. And soon, Liz would be long gone.

  For a moment, her mind went blank and she entered into nothingness, as if she’d stepped into a cloud—big and puffy, all fluffy and white on the outside, but hiding the chaos of thunder and lightning within.

  The woman’s light touch on her arm brought her back to reality.

  Alba.

  That was the blonde’s name. Alba Todd-Jones, of the New York Todd-Joneses. Liz pulled in a breath. She needed to get back into the role she was to play. Back to being someone she wasn’t, but someone she desperately wanted to be.

  Elizabeth Picard of the Normandy Picards—formerly Liz Pritchard of the Meadowview Nobodies—smoothed her long, auburn hair, recently dyed to a more sophisticated color than the carrot-red it used to be, over a bone-thin shoulder, arched her neck forward to enhance her surgically altered breasts, and added emphasis to what she hoped was a brilliant smile.

  “He is indeed generous,” she said, attempting to add a purr to her throat. She coughed. Christ. That hurt. How did these women do that purring thing?

  “We are all so pleased with how happy you’ve made our Gerald.” Alba leaned closer to Liz and whispered conspiratorially, “He’s had a few gold diggers after him, you know.”

  Liz’s stomach clenched. If Alba Todd-Jones knew who Liz really was, the socialite would flip out, calling her a gold digger and figuring the marriage would be one of convenience.

  And Alba would be right. At least, Liz thought, she’d be partially correct.

  Liz wasn’t only one who found the marriage convenient: fifty-five-year-old billionaire Gerald Callahan got something out of the arrangement, too. Marrying a well-educated, financially stable, and beautiful woman from an impeccable background would cut short the rumors of his bisexuality—a truth he wasn’t willing to face publically.

  Her heart clenched as compassion washed over her. Poor Gerald, emotionally unable to publicly acknowledge he was bisexual…and in love with a man. They’d come across one another late one night in a hole-in-the-wall bar in the outskirts of San Francisco. She’d been on a rather disastrous date with a man who’d promised her the moon only to take a call from his wife as he slid a hand up her thigh.

  She’d ditched the loser the moment she discovered he was married—she was many things, but never a home wrecker—and had wandered into the closest bar. That’s where she’d found Gerald, the only person in the bar, drunk as a skunk and quoting Proust into his watered-down gin and tonic as the bartender pretended to listen.

  Always a sucker for a sob story, she’d sat down next to him and bought him a fresh drink. For the next hour, he’d uncharacteristically opened his heart to her about the man he was in love with, how his closed-minded family held the purse strings to his fortune, and how his friends were anything but that. He’d shared with her how his life was about money, prestige, and image. In turn, she’d shared with him her fucked-up childhood and how unhappy she was.

  By the time the bartender had announced Last Call, Gerald had proposed, begging her to marry him so his family and friends would let up on the pressure to find him a mate. With a beautiful wife by his side, he could secretly be with the man he loved.

  Gerald had offered a unique option: he’d use his money and power to create an alternate persona for her, one that said her blood was as blue as mold on cheese—he’d winced when she’d murmured the analogy—so long as she didn’t have any nasty skeletons in her closet. She assured him she didn’t.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d lied.

  Gerald’s social world had forced him to make a choice: open himself up to love and risk censure, or close himself off and maintain a façade. Like her, he’d chosen the façade. This marriage of convenience would give her the image she’d always craved: one of the socially elite.

  She’d always claimed she’d marry for prestige, not love. She’d loved once, and would never open her heart again. A loveless, sexless marriage was exactly what Gerald wanted, which worked perfectly for her. Because while she was a lot of things, most of which weren’t that particularly nice, she wasn’t about to sleep with someone she wasn’t attracted to.

  Memories of a time when she’d been in love shot into her mind, and she winced. Not now. This wasn’t the time to think of her one true love or what they could have had
all those years ago. Nope, this day was all about her and Gerald, and their completely fake relationship.

  Now was not the time to think of Meadowview.

  The cloud moved out of her head until only wisps showed, and then they too were gone. On the grass down below, Gerald caught her attention with a seemingly cheerful wave. She knew better. He could fake happiness just as well as she could. Nervousness ate at her stomach as she waved back. She glanced again at the throng below. It was happening. It was really happening. Liz Pritchard, who once had been snubbed by her entire town, was about to be accepted into the inner circle of high society.

  And only one task remained before she could complete the transformation and rid the world of Liz Pritchard. She had to sell the house in dingy old Meadowview she’d inherited when her mother died a few months ago. Tomorrow she’d return home for what she hoped would be the last time, and meet with the Realtor to put 35 Nightingale Lane up for sale.

  Once the sale of the house went through, Liz Pritchard could disappear forever.

  To be replaced by Elizabeth Picard. Darling of the socialites. Newest member of the popular clique.

  Soon, Liz Pritchard would be dead.

  Her chest suddenly squeezed the air out of her lungs and a hollow, sinking sensation hit her stomach. She forced herself to stay upright, to swallow the sick back down. Guilt did this—made her want to barf.

  But why feel guilty? She’d done nothing wrong in accepting Gerald’s proposal. Marrying Gerald would bring her prestige, honor, respect. All that had once been stolen, first by Hunter Thorne, then by the entire town of Meadowview. No one could ever give her back what she’d lost, but gaining social standing had at least been an achievable goal. One she’d earned.

  So why did she suddenly feel so vastly empty?

  * * *

  On a tree-lined mountain highway, headed toward the town of Meadowview, California, six hundred pounds of hot steel vibrated between Hunter Thorne’s thighs as he cranked up the throttle on his BMW, revving up the motor to power out of a curve.

  Late afternoon sun cast oblique shadows over the winding asphalt. In front of him, the two-lane road stretched long and clear, surrounded by tall pines, thick oaks, and the occasional manzanita bush tucked along the roadside like unwanted broccoli on a kid’s plate. The wind picked up, tossing dried oak leaves in his path. A green and white road sign caught his eye as he raced past. Three miles to Meadowview.

  The road dipped, the elevation dropping as the foothills leveled out to a valley floor. The air took on a scent he remembered—summer’s warm and damp smell, brought about by the creek that flowed through town.

  The white church spire from St. Bartholomew’s came into view and Hunter shifted down a gear. His hometown and his past lay directly ahead. Instead of continuing on the road, he pulled over at the vista point and slowed to a stop, then hit the kickstand and balanced the bike between his thighs.

  Letting the engine chug, he reached into his back pocket and tugged out the well-worn and creased piece of paper. He pulled the folds apart and smoothed the note out on his thigh. He didn’t need to read the words that stared back at him in black and white—they’d been burned onto his brain several days ago when he’d first opened up the email.

  Dear Mr. Thorne,

  You probably weren’t expecting to hear from me for four more years, but I hacked into the adoption agency’s database and got the letter you wrote me a long time ago. I really, really want to meet you. I want to meet my mother, too, and at the same time. It’s important. Just tell me where and when. I’m super, super excited!!!

  Yours truly,

  Abbie McHale, your daughter

  His heart jumped, then curled in on itself. He folded the paper along its original creases and worked it down deep in the back pocket of his jeans. After revving the engine, he took off in a squeal of burning rubber, leaning into the curves, heading toward 35 Nightingale Lane in Meadowview, California. To Liz Pritchard’s house.

  Thirteen years ago, Liz had made a decision on her own, one that had ended up costing him the chance to know his daughter. At the time, he’d been blindsided by what she’d done and hadn’t had the balls to fight for his rights. Now that his daughter had found him, he wouldn’t let Liz screw that chance up again. He’d find her and make her acknowledge what they’d once made together. What she’d once so callously thrown away.

  He’d make her meet their daughter.

  * * *

  In Denver, Colorado, curled up on a twin-sized rumpled bed, in a room plastered with posters of rock bands and actors, thirteen-year-old Abbie McHale flicked her fingers across her iPhone. With a quick tap, a scanned image appeared. The sight sent a shiver into her stomach, as it did each time she pulled up the file.

  A file she had no right to see.

  Curled around her, her best friend, Bay, squealed and said, “Show me again.”

  A week ago, after Abbie had pleaded and bribed, Internet-savvy Bay had hacked into the adoption agency’s files with the ease of someone the NSA should be after. After a few quick keystrokes, Bay found the answer Abbie would have had to wait another four years to see.

  There, glowing on the rectangular screen in black and white, were the names of her birth parents…and a scanned note from her birth father, written about thirteen years ago.

  Since the moment the handwriting had flashed up onto her screen, Abbie had repeatedly read the letter until she knew it by heart.

  “That’s so cool he wrote to you before you were born,” Bay said.

  Abbie nodded. Her throat had clenched up so tight she couldn’t speak. She angled the phone so Bay could read the letter once again.

  Dear Daughter,

  When I signed the adoption papers, the agency told me that you could read this letter when you turned eighteen, if you want. I can’t put how I feel in words, but know in your heart that I have always loved you and always will. I hope I can see you some day. Please call or write. I will never stop thinking about you. I promise.

  He’d signed the letter, “All my love, your birth father, Hunter Thorne.” Apparently, her birth father had made good on his promise never to stop thinking about his daughter. Several updated addresses and phone numbers appeared in the file, along with an email address.

  A few days ago, she’d taken the plunge and emailed her birth father. Within a few hours, a reply had popped into her Inbox from her father—Hunter Thorne.

  Her real father. Not some wannabe fake like Darrin McHale. Not some jerk who would marry the stepmother from hell, knock the lady up, then make his daughter live by her rules.

  “His name sounds so cool—Hunter Thorne. Like some lion out on the savannah. Or a detective in some old black and white movie. Is he hot?”

  Abbie squeaked. “Gross! He’s my father! Besides, I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “What do you know about him? Or about your birth mother?”

  “I know he’s some hotshot firefighter who jumps out of planes into burning forests and stuff. I Googled him and found a bunch of articles about him, but I couldn’t find anything on my birth mom. In one of his emails he said I must look like my mom because she has red hair and freckles, just like me.” She indicated her long, straight red hair, twisted in two messy braids. “But he hasn’t seen my mom yet. There wasn’t any contact information in the adoption agency’s files, and I guess they lost touch in high school after she had me. He’s gonna drive to where they grew up, some lame town in California called Meadowview, and see if he can find her.”

  “Oh, God, that’s so exciting!” Bay said, twirling around in the office chair.

  Abbie smiled. Her fracked up world was no longer falling apart. She had a dad who wanted her. And a mom who was out there somewhere who would want her just as much. She had a family. A real family.

  All she had to do was escape from her adoptive father and her new stepmother, Ember, and then go find her real parents. She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t as if getting away would be difficu
lt—they never even noticed her. With Ember’s pregnancy, Abbie had become invisible.

  Until she’d found her father. Hunter Thorne, that is. Hunter had noticed her. And so would her birth mother, Liz Pritchard.

  On Meadowview’s Main Street in the waning late afternoon light, Hunter eased the BMW between a parked newer-model SUV with two slick Cannondale mountain bikes latched to the top and a mud-encrusted decades-old Ford F-150 pickup. He switched off his bike and with a flick of his steel-toed boot, dropped the kickstand down, then leaned back on the seat and gazed around his hometown.

  When he’d swung by Liz’s mother’s place a few minutes earlier, it had appeared deserted, which puzzled him. Liz, he’d heard, was off gallivanting all about the world, probably chasing men with hefty bank accounts. He hadn’t expected to find her at her former home. But her mom, Tina, would never leave Meadowview.

  He needed to find Tina if he were to find Liz. He’d spent a full day Googling Liz’s whereabouts but had located no current contact information. It seemed as if she’d dropped off the face of the earth several months ago. Tina’s address had remained the same—35 Nightingale Lane—but her phone had been disconnected.

  Someone in the grocery store or the post office would know where Tina was. He looked up at the sky, noticing the sun had already dipped below the horizon. It was later than he’d thought. Evening in a small town meant the grocery store would be closed. Okay, then, so he couldn’t go there or to the post office for gossip, either. But the Goldpan Pub would still be open. He could get info there.

  He swung stiffly off the bike, stretched, then stepped up onto the raised wooden sidewalk. His boots echoed heavily on the wood. Built during the height of the gold rush, Meadowview had managed to retain its small-town charm even as it hustled in tourists like crazy. When he was a kid, he used to insult the out-of-towners, finding them irritating. Now, he supposed he should be grateful for all the yuppies and Gen Xers who poured their trust fund dollars into the local economy. He’d be sad if the town ever folded. Meadowview had once been home.