No Rules

Chapter One

The first time he left it nearly killed her.

This time was different. Now she couldn’t have cared less.

Jess supposed she could work up a good anger if she tried. Something that reflected the unresolved feelings she’d thought fifteen years of therapy had healed. Because death was forever, and this time the son of a bitch hadn’t just walked out of her life; this time he’d died. Any faint hope for an apology or reconciliation with her estranged father was gone—one more thing he’d taken from her. The bastard.

Still, she’d been his only child, and sole surviving blood relative. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even spoken to her mother in fifteen years. So when her father’s lawyer said, “We’ll begin going over the will as soon as the other beneficiary arrives,” she scrunched up her brows in confusion. “What other beneficiary?”

“One moment, Miss Maulier, I’m sure… Ah, here we go.”

Jess turned in her chair, braced for the sight of some garish gold digger, no doubt one of those busty types with too much jewelry and makeup, and a handful of tissues to wipe her fake tears. One final reminder that the gentle, loving father of her childhood was long gone, replaced by a man she didn’t recognize and actions she couldn’t understand.

The cynical expression she’d prepared fell into an openmouthed stare.

It wasn’t a woman. Far from it.

Testosterone oozed from the man who strode into the office. From his height and build, she might have mistaken him for a professional athlete, but he lacked the casual grace and easy-going demeanor she’d expect in a man who played games for a living. Confidence was there, and no doubt the skills to go with it, but she was sure it had nothing to do with sports. This man did not play games. He was danger and aggression in one raw package, an appearance so imposing it would have sent her flying to her therapist’s couch in a panic if he’d approached her in a bar. She hoped he didn’t notice how she shrank back in her chair.

He was dressed entirely in black, from his leather jacket and pants, to his boots and shiny helmet tucked under one arm. Even his unruly hair and unshaven stubble were so dark as to be nearly black. The only spots of color were his blue eyes, which took in the lawyer, then her, before making one thorough sweep of the room.

It was the kind of look that made her sure he could close his eyes and recite every object on Mr. Sanderson’s desk and bookshelf. Cool, but intensely alert. When his gaze came back to her, she shivered.

“Hello, Jessie,” he said, startling her with the nickname only her father had used. “I’m Tyler Donovan.” He bit the fingertips of one leather glove, pulled his hand out, and reached down to where she sat.

She stared, first at him, then at his hand. The chilly November air rolled off him as she allowed him to engulf her fingers in his firm grip for two seconds before pulling abruptly away.

His name had meant nothing to her. He was too young to be one of her father’s contemporaries, yet too old to be a typical student. Surely such a dangerous-seeming man couldn’t have been a close friend of the quiet linguistics scholar? And yet, he’d known her name.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but who are you?”

“Tyler Donovan.” He repeated it slowly, as if it should have some significance for her.

It didn’t.

“How did you know my father?”

“We worked together.”

At tiny Emerson college? He had to be in a different department; linguistics had never seemed so vital and stimulating when she was in school. She was still staring at him as Mr. Sanderson settled at his desk and opened a folder. “Please sit down, Mr. Donovan, and we’ll get right to it. This is really very simple, as you are the only two beneficiaries in Walter’s will. I’ll summarize, if you’d like me to skip the legal jargon.”

She nodded and Donovan said, “That’s fine,” but his attention seemed more on her than on Mr. Sanderson. She was equally distracted, still wondering who in the hell he was while trying to ignore the little flip her stomach took every time her gaze ran into his.

Mr. Sanderson seemed oblivious, intent on his own agenda, which apparently involved wrapping up this appointment and being someplace else. “Good, good,” he approved. “Walter had this will drawn up several years ago, but nothing has changed and it’s quite straightforward. Miss Maulier, the house and property in Nipagonee Rapids, consisting of ten acres, are left to you. All monies in stocks, bonds, retirement plans, and any accounts at the Emerson College Teachers Credit union   are also yours. My secretary will provide you with a list of all accounts with their current values.”