Marrying a Delacourt. Sherryl Woods

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      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

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      If Michael Delacourt had had any idea that this latest harangue about his health was going to bring the bane of his existence, Grace Foster, back into his life, he would have tuned Tyler out. Instead, he let his brother drone on and on, then fell right straight into the trap.

      “You’re a heart attack waiting to happen,” Tyler Delacourt began as he had at least once a week like clockwork. He made the claim with brotherly concern, usually from the comfortable vantage point of the sofa in Michael’s office on the executive floor at Delacourt Oil. He was slugging down black coffee and doughnuts as he spoke, unaware of the irony in his comments. “You have to learn how to slow down—before it’s too late.”

      Too late? Hogwash! Michael was getting sick of hearing it, especially from a man who shunned exercise unless it was related to bringing in a new gusher. Worse, Tyler’s consumption of cholesterol showed a total disregard for its potential effects on his heart.

      Besides, Michael thought irritably, he wasn’t even in his thirties yet. Okay, he was close, weeks away, in fact. Still, by all accounts this was the prime of his life. Just as he was doing this morning, he did thirty grueling minutes every day on the treadmill he kept in his office. Hell, he was in better shape now than he’d been in when he’d played college sports. Could Tyler say the same?

      “I’d like to see you set the pace I do on this treadmill,” he countered as sweat poured down his chest and his muscles burned from the exertion.

      But even as he dismissed his brother’s concern, Michael was forced to admit that he exercised the way he did everything else—as if driven. His bewildered mother used to say he’d come out of the womb three weeks early, and he’d been in a hurry ever since. It was a trait that definitely set him apart from his laid-back brothers—Dylan, Jeb and, especially, Tyler. Michael was not prone to a lot of introspection, but he could hardly deny that his type-A personality affected all aspects of his life, personal as well as professional.

      To top it off, he had no social life to speak of, unless his command attendance at various benefits and dinner parties counted. He was as wary of females as a man could get. The minute a woman started making possessive little remarks, he beat a hasty retreat. Maybe someday, when he had some spare time, he’d sit down and try to figure out why. In the meantime, he simply accepted the fact that there was no room in his life for a woman who’d have to take second place to his career at Delacourt Oil.

      Of the four Delacourt brothers, he was the only one who really gave a damn about the family business. He had his father’s instincts for it. He had the drive and ambition to take the company to new heights, but Bryce Delacourt was fiercely determined that the company he’d launched would be divided equally among his offspring. He grumbled unrelentingly about how ungrateful they were for not seeing that, never noticing that Michael was grateful enough for all of them.

      Still, Delacourt Oil was his father’s baby, which he could split up any way he wanted to. It wasn’t that Michael was unwilling to share with his siblings. It was just that he wanted to be the one on top, the one in charge, and he would run himself into the ground if necessary trying to prove that he was worthy of the position. None of the others understood that kind of single-minded determination. Even now, Tyler was shaking his head, disapproval written all over his face.

      “That’s just it. You exercise all out, as if you’re trying to conquer Mount Everest, the same way you do everything,” Tyler chided, refusing to let the subject drop. “You keep that blasted phone in your hand the whole time, too, so you’re not wasting time.”

      “It’s efficient,” Michael said, defending himself for perhaps the thousandth time. He tossed his portable phone on the sofa next to Tyler to prove he could give it up any time he wanted to.

      “It’s crazy,” Tyler contradicted. “Face it, you’re a compulsive overachiever. Always have been. When was the last time you took a day off? When was the last time you took an actual vacation?”

      “To do what?” Michael asked, perplexed.

      “Go to the beach house with the rest of us, for instance. We haven’t СКАЧАТЬ