LITMIR.BIZ

      TERESA SOUTHWICK

      At the tender age of ten, Teresa Southwick learned to deal with rejection when her four brothers found and “critiqued” one of her medieval stories. Then she could tattle to Mom, who unfortunately didn’t send the blackguards to the gallows, or at the very least the dungeon, as Teresa had hoped. But it would be almost thirty years before she would again put pen to paper—or more accurately, fingers to keyboard.

      A California girl born and raised, she spent many blissful hours sitting on the beach reading romance novels. Her fondness for happy endings began with Nancy Drew, and if she’d written those stories, Nancy and Ned would be living happily ever after. The good news is that her fascination with a wonderful love story was alive, well and flourishing in spite of her brothers.

      She sold her first book in 1993, and in 1995, she achieved her longtime goal of writing for Silhouette Romance. The best part of writing, she believes, is that there are always more challenges around the corner. When she was asked to participate in THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS series, she jumped at the chance to write Shotgun Vows. The experience of working with such a talented and generous group of writers was both daunting and rewarding. The best part was sharing the news with her brothers—blackguards matured into heroes—who never miss a chance these days to brag about their “famous” sister.

      Teresa and her husband have two grown sons.

      To THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS authors.

      It’s been a pleasure and a privilege working with a talented, generous group of writers. I’m grateful to be included in your ranks.

      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

      One

      It was rumored that Griffin Fortune knew three hundred ways to kill with his bare hands. How could you say no to someone like that?

      “You’re absolutely sure you want me to watch out for your sister?” Dawson Prescott asked again.

      He studied Griffin, sitting across the desk from him. Dawson wasn’t afraid of him; he was a friend. In spite of Griff’s dangerous reputation, Dawson liked him and his brothers. It was their sister, Matilda, who rubbed him the wrong way.

      Griff brushed a hand over his dark brown hair. The short, military cut didn’t move. “You heard me right,” he said. His Australian drawl did nothing to soften the words. If anything, his “down under” accent added intimidation. “I want you to watch over Mattie while I’m gone. We had this discussion already.”

      “Yeah, I remember,” Dawson said. “I just didn’t think you were serious.” Hoped he wasn’t serious would be more accurate. But Dawson suspected Griff never said anything he didn’t mean.

      “Dead serious,” he answered, confirming the suspicion. “If I could put off this job, I would.” He met Dawson’s gaze squarely and a predatory glint crept into his brown eyes. “But I have to go.”

      Dawson knew he would say no more about it than that.

      Here in the plush carpeted, wood-accented office at Fortune TX, Ltd. where he worked as a financial analyst, it was hard for Dawson to imagine what the other man did when he disappeared. But Dawson had quickly come to like and respect him. Whatever it was that took the man out of town, Dawson instinctively knew Griffin Fortune was one of the good guys.

      Dawson pushed his cushy leather chair away from the desk, leaned back, and linked his hands over his abdomen. “But again I have to ask—why me? My baby-sitting skills leave something to be desired.”

      “If she were a baby, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Griff said, his Aussie drawl thickening with irony.

      As much as he wanted to, Dawson couldn’t argue with the fact that Matilda Fortune was no baby. Every time he heard her name, he instantly thought of her long, shapely legs encased in denim—followed quickly by a flash of those legs wrapped around his waist. He’d only ever seen her in work clothes with her shirt pulled out and hanging loose. If the rest of her was as good as those legs, and he ever got a look at the package, they would all be in trouble.

      The weird thing was that in the looks department she was nothing to write home about. Ordinary braided blond hair, average gray eyes, and pale skin all added up to a woman as plain as her name: Matilda. Who thought that up? Dawson only knew that she pushed some of his buttons—all of them wrong. But it was unlikely that anything

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