1
Along Came Joe
By Marie Ferrarella
3
2
Wife For Real
By Kate Walker
26
3
Whirlwind Wedding
By Lillian Darcy
49
4
Wedding In Venice
By Lucy Gordon
68
5
Walk On The Wilde Side
By Anne Marie Winston
104
6
The Wedding Expert
By Darcy Mcguire
127
7
The Tycoon's Surprise
By Katherine Garbera
148
8
The Spy Who Loved Her
By Marie Ferrarella
171
9
The Secret Wedding
By Liz Fielding
203
10
The Runaway Mistress
By Sandra Marton
221
11
Love Letters
By Barbara Mcmahon
249
12
The Prince's Proposal
By Carla Cassidy
272
13
The Marriage Secret
By Kim Lawrence
295
14
The Heart of Riverbend
By Judith Arnold
321
15
The Greek Tycoon's Baby
By Lynne Graham
346
16
The Duke's Dilemma
By Margaret Moore
368
17
Taking A Risk
By Brenda Novak
379
18
Sugar and Spice
By Lynette Kent
402
19
Single In San Francisco
By Cara Summers
419
20
Roped into Romance
By Alison Kent
440
21
Outlaw Hearts
By Elizabeth Lane
458
22
Night Moves
By Jeanie London
471
23
Mistress Of His Heart
By Deborah Hale
492
24
Mistaken for a Mistress
By Jane Porter
514
25
Miss Ex-Girlfriend Pageant
By Melissa Senate
538
26
Millionaires Don't Count
By Sophie Weston
558
27
Midsummer Masque
By Deborah Hale
592
28
Marrying Mary
By Lori Foster
610
29
Marriage Overboard
By Christine Rimmer
637
30
Manhunting Masquerade
By Joanne Rock
659
31
Made To Measure
By Joan Elliott Pickart
671
32
Kissing Cupid
By Holly Jacobs
691
33
Just One Kiss
By Jessica Hart
702
34
Indulge Me
By Joanne Rock
721
35
In Bed with the Boss
By Sharon Kendrick
741
36
Hot Flash
By Donna Kauffman
771
37
From Lust to Love
By Cathy Williams
790
38
For Love Or Money
By Liz Bevarly
815
39
Dr Protector
By Jessica Andersen
839
40
Double Destiny (incomplete)
By Caroline Anderson
862
41
Doctor's Orders
By Bobby Hutchinson
876
42
Diamond Affairs
By Isabel Sharpe
889
43
Designer Sex
By Heather McAllister
910
1
44
Cherokee Christmas
By Sheri Whitefeather
935
45
Pulse Point (Charlotte's Angel)
By Catherine Spencer
964
46
Breaking News
By Gina Wilkins
974
47
Bayou Reunion
By Rebecca York
994
Till 47…
* eHarlequin, US
rest of them Mills and Boon, UK
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Along Came Joe by Marie Ferrarella In need of cash to save the family ranch, single dad Joe competes in a reality television show! Unfortunately, beautiful Theresa Knight is just as determined to win... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One “Why didn’t you tell me?” Joe Cooper demanded. “Don’t yell at your mother.” A sad, bemused smile curved Elaine Cooper’s lips as she looked at her firstborn. She knew he only meant well. “Sets a bad example for your son.” Joe lowered his voice, exasperation echoing in every syllable. “Jesse’s upstairs, trying to figure out how to be a rock star so he can impress some girl in his class. I am not yelling and don’t try to change the subject. You should have told me the county was asking you for back taxes on the ranch.” He wouldn’t have known now, if he hadn’t stumbled across the letter in the den while looking for an old photo album. The bill had been for the astronomical sum of three hundred and forty-five thousand dollars, payable in a month’s time. Or else. Elaine shook her head. After all this time, he still didn’t understand how mothers worked. “And what, casually toss it on top of all the trouble you were having? Your wife was dying, you were going bankrupt and trying to hold civilized life as you knew it together for Jesse’s sake. Did you expect me to pick up the phone and say, ‘Hello, son. How are you and, oh, yes, by the way, can you spare a truckload of cash because some idiot realized they’d been taxing my land at the wrong rate and now if I don’t pay them, I’m going to lose the old homestead?’” “Something like that.” He dragged a hand through his deep brown hair and looked at his mother. “So what are you going to do?” Elaine sighed. “I don't know. Going to bed with the county assessor doesn’t seem to be the way to go. He’s gay.” She saw the incredulous look come shooting across her son’s face. “I’m kidding. Not about the county assessor being gay. He is.” She glanced at an oil painting of her late husband hanging over the living room fireplace. Lord, but she did miss him. He would have known what to do, no matter what. “Wouldn’t want to add insult to injury.” Humor had always been his mother’s way of dealing with things. It used to be his, as well, but he had long since lost the ability to laugh over things. Life had gotten much too serious for him in the past year. “I’m assuming you haven’t called the guys about this, either.” She looked at him sharply. “No, and I’m not going to. And neither are you,” she warned. “There’s nothing Max, Sean and Ryan can do, anyway. The back taxes come to almost three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” Why was she being so stubborn about this? “There’s money being held in trust for each of them. Almost a half a million each according to the terms of Dad’s will,” he reminded her. He’d already gotten his share, but Sandra’s medical bills had cleaned him out. But there was more than enough still waiting for his brothers. “If any one of them had access to their resources -” “Exactly,” his mother cut in. “Their resources, not mine. Four hundred thousand dollars for each of them — same as you.” A small woman, she straightened and squared her shoulders. “I couldn’t ask them for it. Besides, they won’t even get it until after they’re married and from what I know of my sons, even with that
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incentive dangling in front of them, none of them is anywhere close to tying the knot. I can’t expect them to grab some woman off the street and run off to get married because I need money.” Joe fixed her with a look. “You’ve always been there for us.” Elaine waved away his protest. “Sticking Band-Aids on scraped knees doesn’t quite come with a price tag of four hundred thousand dollars each for services rendered.” “You did a hell of a lot more than that and you know it.” She was the glue that had held the family together through the lean years, the one who had instilled such a strong sense of family within him. She couldn’t expect him to just back away from that now. “I’m sure June Cleaver wouldn’t have expected Wally and the Beaver to fork over a couple hundred thousand each, either.” Elaine smiled fondly. “More than likely, they’d throw together a lemonade stand. If you wanted to go sell lemonade on my behalf, I wouldn’t stand in your way.” “What I want to do is save the ranch. For all of us.” But mostly for her. This was her home, he thought. The only home she’d ever known since she’d come to the Virginia horse ranch as a new bride. Elaine sighed, looking out the bay window that faced the back of her property. The view stretched out forever, taking in the stables, the lush grass, the corral where she and her husband and then her sons had trained the horses. How much longer was she going to be able to see it? How much longer was this going to be hers? She didn’t want to think about that. “So do I, dear, so do I. But right now, I am fresh out of ideas. The tooth fairy doesn’t leave that kind of money under the pillow when she makes her rounds, and I certainly can’t get a loan from the bank.” And it went without saying that he wasn’t exactly a candidate for floating one, either. At least, not for the kind of money it would take to placate the county tax assessor. There was a little more than five hundred dollars in his bank account. What the stock market hadn’t eroded from his holdings, Sandra’s medical bills had eaten up. They had exceeded by far anything that their health insurance was contracted to pay out. That was why he and Jesse had to come back to the ranch to stay after her death. He’d sold everything to get out of debt and had nowhere else to turn. His mother had welcomed them both with open arms, telling him that this was their home and always would be. Apparently, “always” was going to have a finite duration if the county had its way. Joe frowned. He felt like someone caught up in an old fashioned melodrama. He needed to save the old homestead from being sold right out from under them. That the responsibility wasn’t solely his had never crossed his mind. He was the oldest; it was his job to look out for his mother and her interests. At bottom, that was what he was about — making sure those he loved were cared for, were all right. Right now, he wasn’t doing his job very well. He’d spent months helplessly watching his wife deteriorate without being able to do anything to change that. Impotently watched as bills ate his money, money that had been earmarked for Jesse’s college education, for a better life for his son. He hadn’t been able to help Sandra, hadn’t been able to keep his inheritance from eroding, but there damn well had to be something he could do here. He tried to think of options and found himself facing nothing but a brick wall. But people scaled walls. He used to as a kid. “There’s got to be a way to raise money.”
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Elaine nodded. She placed her hand on his arm, trying to mutely tell him it was all right, that this was her fight, not his. “Maybe there is.” They both turned to see that Jesse was standing in the doorway, his worn sneakers planted on the highly polished wooden floor. His son was clutching a newspaper in his hand. “Don't you know any better than to come sneaking up on your dad and grandmother?” Joe asked. “I wasn’t sneaking,” the eight-year-old said defensively. “You were talking loud.” Elaine gave Joe a look that all but audibly declared, “See?” Joe beckoned his son over to the sofa. “How could you hear me over that guitar you’ve been torturing?” Jesse ignored his father’s question. Instead, he held up the newspaper he’d brought down. There’d been an ad for a video game he wanted in it, but what he’d heard had made him forget about something so selfish. “I can earn the money for you, Grandma.” Elaine hugged the boy to her. “I’m afraid I can’t wait for you to become a rock star, honey.” Jesse gave her a look that said he knew that. “No, but I can go on TV and win the contest.” “What contest?” Joe wanted to know. “The Journey. They’re coming here and looking for people.” Jesse held up the front page of the section he was holding. “It says right here they’re looking for outdoor types.” He grinned at his grandmother, looking exactly like his father had at his age, Elaine thought. Jesse pounded his chest with a small fist. “I’m an outdoor type. I can win the contest and give the money to you. You’ll be rich.” Elaine could only laugh. It served to keep back the tears. “I already am rich. I’ve got a big, strong, handsome grandson who wants to take care of me.” “Let me see that.” Joe took the paper from his son and began to scan the article. Elaine looked up sharply. She knew what a private person her oldest son was. She also knew all about reality shows. This would be tantamount to living in a fishbowl. “Joe, you’re not thinking -” “Yes,” he told her, “I am.” He turned the paper around so that she could see the title of the article: Winner to Get a Million Dollars. “That should take care of all your problems,” he pointed out. “And there’d be more than enough left over to stake me to a new life.” “You going to try out for the contest, Dad?” Jesse wanted to know. “No,” Joe said. “I’m going to win the contest.” Chapter Two “Looks like every man and woman in Virginia came to try out for this show,” Joe commented as he got out of the car. Elaine slid into the driver’s seat, taking his place behind the wheel. “Joe, why don’t you forget about this and just come home?”
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“Because I want to keep coming home and it won’t be home if I don’t win this.” He looked across the street at the ever growing crowd in front the Body Beautiful Fitness Center. This was where the producers of The Journey, the newest reality program to catch the country’s attention by storm, were looking for contestants. The irony of the situation made him smile. He had to be the only one in the country who had never watched a reality show. Even his mother was a faithful viewer of one of them. And now here he was literally betting the farm, or in this case ranch, that he could come up a winner on this one. According to the article he’d read, twenty contestants were to be chosen. It looked as though several thousand had shown up. It was going to be a long afternoon. Joe leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek through the open window. “I’ll give you a call when it’s over.” He winked. “You can pick up the pieces.” Knowing she couldn’t talk her oldest son out of something after he’d made up his mind, Elaine wished him luck and then drove off. Joe braced himself. It looked as if he was going to have a long wait ahead of him. Taking out the portable mp3 player Sandra had given him the last Christmas they’d had together, he attached the small headphones then placed them on his ears. He slid the almost flat player into the back pocket of his jeans. When he’d gotten the gift, he’d laughed and said it was just something else he wasn’t going to use. But now that Sandra was gone, he played the memory stick full of tunes she’d selected for him often. It made him feel closer to her. Crossing the street, he approached the end of the ever growing line. Another would-be applicant came up from the rear at the same time he did. Since the laws of physics hadn’t been amended and two objects weren’t capable of taking up the same space at the same time, Joe found himself colliding with a very soft, yet at the same time firm, surface. An athletic-looking young woman with short, curly black hair and eyes the color of a rich chocolate sundae recovered herself in time to keep from ignobly meeting the pavement. The earphones were still on his head. The woman was saying something to him, and her lips were definitely not in sync with what Toby Keith was singing about into his ear. Joe slid the headphones off, leaving them hanging around his neck. He flashed an apologetic grin. “Hey, sorry.” Neither the grin nor the abbreviated apology appeared to do it for her. The woman looked summarily annoyed. “Look, mister, if you haven’t learned how to walk and pay attention to where you’re going at the same time, maybe you shouldn’t be trying out for the show.” Her eyes widened as she heard the tune he was listening to emanating from the headphones around his neck. She didn’t recognize the song, but was apparently familiar enough with the mode of music to allow a smirk to cross her generous mouth. The chocolate eyes rose to meet his face. “Country and western — well, maybe that explains it.” He wasn’t a big fan of country and western music — that had been Sandra’s thing. But he didn’t care for the woman’s superior attitude. Normally polite to a fault, he felt annoyance taking hold of his tongue. “And what’s your excuse?” The mark of a fighter about her, he watched the woman’s chest swell indignantly. He had to admit, despite the confrontational situation, it was a rather attractive sight. It surprised him to feel something stirring inside. “Inside” had been dead for a very long time.
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The woman looked ready to tangle with him right then and there. Her chin shot up as several people around them began to pay attention to the exchange. “What?” “You walked into me just as much as I walked into you,” Joe pointed out. She found his voice annoyingly low and controlled. It only made her more irritated. “Look, cowboy -” “Is there a problem here?” A burly-looking man wearing a short-sleeve shirt and short, stubby tie that definitely looked out of place with his bulging muscles and size-eighteen neck seemed to materialize out of the crowd. His manner labeled him as being with the producers and the talent scouts. His job was security or, more to the point, to keep the peace. Joe became aware of another man standing behind the first, holding a camera, apparently filming the potential contestants standing out in eighty-seven degree weather. Obviously the powers that be were anticipating short tempers and shorter fuses. The woman tossed her head, her dark curls bouncing. Her firm breasts seemed to rise up a notch. “No problem. Nothing I can’t handle.” The man turned his attention to Joe. Joe inclined his head toward the woman. “What she said.” With a huff that was meant to be taken as a warning, the man withdrew, taking the cameraman with him. The latter drifted over to another section of the endless line. Joe reined in his temper, regaining control over it. He wasn’t out to make enemies, just to get this over with. Leaving bad feelings to fester was only going to make things worse. “Joe Cooper,” he said, putting out his hand. Surprised, the woman with the picture-perfect, taut body looked at him a second before finally placing her own hand in his. “Theresa Knight.” Her eyes locked with his. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being challenged on a very basic, earthly level. Theresa was nothing if not the picture of confidence. “And I’m going to win this thing.” A beat passed. He realized that he was still holding her hand. Joe opened his fingers, letting go. “First you have to qualify,” he told her quietly. “That’s already a given.” Theresa shifted slightly, aware that his eyes were washing over her. Was that judgment she saw? It wouldn’t be the first time, but she always reacted as if it were. “What? You think I’m too small to go white-water rafting and rock climbing? You think just because you’re a guy and bigger than I am that for some reason —” “No.” He cut short whatever tirade was in the making. He hadn’t come out here to argue with anyone. He hadn’t even come out here to compete against anyone. He’d just come out here because his mother needed the money and this was the only thing he could do in short order. That he had to win was not a question. It was a statement. With that, he turned and faced forward. Picking up the headphones, he slipped them back on his ears and drowned out everything else that was going on around him.
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Including the rather stunning woman fuming at his back. Chapter Three Standing out in the hot sun for the past three hours had come close to draining him. Joe suspected that was exactly the intent of the reality program’s talent scouts. It served as the first round for weeding out the lesser contestants, separating the starstruck from the serious. The next few rounds, he had a feeling, were going to be far more grueling. By the time he got into the shade of the building, he felt as if he’d lost five pounds of water weight. He and the others who were admitted at this point were all given bottled water to quench their thirst. He drank his sparingly. His whole life had been about pacing himself and this was no different. As the oldest in the family, he’d been born older than the others. More serious than the others. It was his job to set an example, his job to shoulder responsibilities and if, at times, he grew damn weary of his “job,” at other times he realized just how lucky he was to have a family that looked to him for support, that offered support to him those few times he found himself in need. He thought of his mother, trying to ease his burden by keeping the news about the ranch’s reassessment to herself. There was no way he was going to allow the ranch to be taken from her, he thought. Joe took in his surroundings. The woman who he’d collided with was still there. By her bearing and manner, he’d already figured out that it would take a lot more than just discomfort to make Theresa Knight voluntarily drop out the way about a hundred or so would-be contestants had before they ever reached the physical fitness center’s red double doors. There was a determination about the woman he recognized. It was the same look he’d seen in his own mirror. Once inside the building, they were herded into a large communal room, a hundred candidates at a time, to await the first of several interviews with the talent scouts, followed by a battery of endurance tests to see if they had the stamina for the contest. As he found himself being shuffled from one place to another en masse, he began to understand what cattle went through as they were being herded. He was glad the ranch he’d grown up on raised racehorses. Not for much longer, he thought ruefully as he staked out a place for himself and sank down to the floor. Not if he couldn’t win this. Taking another swig from the water bottle he was holding, Joe looked around, trying to get a feel for what was ahead for him. The article Jesse had found had summoned one and all to an old-fashioned test of “grit.” “Grit” didn’t begin to describe the kinds of things he was going to be up against. The only other clue was that they wanted contestants who could hold their own outdoors. And he could do that. “Scoping out the competition, cowboy?” He didn’t have to turn around to know that the question came from the woman who was already critical of his choice of music. “Just getting the lay of the land.” Since she had initiated the conversation, he decided to try to satisfy his own curiosity. “You have any idea what they expect us to actually do in this contest? Exactly what are we up against?” “Each other.” For a moment, she looked as if she was going to leave it at that. And then, thinking better of her quip, she added, “I heard there’re going to be twenty people, broken up into teams of five. You work with your team and against it.”
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That sounded like a direct contradiction. “What does that mean?” She wondered if this man had any true idea of what he was getting himself into. Most of the people trying out today didn’t. But then, they didn’t have her advantage. Theresa sat down next to him. “It means, cowboy, that only one person, not a team, gets the prize money. You work with your team to beat out the other three teams, then you work for yourself to beat out the other four people in your group, some of whom, if you’re lucky, have already been disqualified by that time.” He’d never subscribed to the every-man-for-himself theory of operation. “Not exactly the great American way, is it?” Just how innocent was this guy? He wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in her old neighborhood. Fairness was seen as a weakness, not a plus. Still, she had to admit that on him, it seemed a little sexy. But if he was a stickler for being fair, Theresa judged she was going to be able to beat him easily. It was almost a shame, given that he was one of the better-looking specimens of manhood she’d seen here so far. “Sure it is. It’s looking out for number one.” Joe frowned. “That wasn’t the principle on which this country was built.” Unable to contain herself any longer, she stared at him. “Where did they find you?” “They didn’t. I found them. Or Jesse did.” And if it wasn’t that he was convinced that there was no other way to save the ranch, he would have been out of here like a shot. Hell, he would have never been in here to begin with. “Jessie,” Theresa echoed. “That your significant other?” “In a manner of speaking.” At least, there was no one else who figured more significantly into his life than Jesse. “Jesse’s my eight-year-old son.” Was he kidding? What cave had this man come out of? “‘Significant other’ means mate, cowboy, not kid.” Pausing, Theresa gave the man beside her a long once-over, taking in the fact that even though the man sounded like a throwback to another era, maybe even another planet, he was damn good-looking in a very rugged sort of way. She wondered if he knew what to do with those muscles of his. And if there was anyone to appreciate them. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she decided. “Is there a Mrs. Cowboy waiting somewhere around here?” Even after all these months, it was still hard not to think of Sandra in the picture. He could feel the ache forming in his chest even before he said, “I’m a widower.” The way he said it, he hadn’t been one all that long. Theresa felt a little uncomfortable that she’d intruded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.” “You didn’t. All my memories of Sandra are good ones. Except for the end,” he added quietly. Restless, he looked around. At the other end of the large room, people were trickling out through a door one person at a time. Probably to be interviewed. At this rate, he was going to be here until after the county seized his mother’s ranch. He looked back toward Theresa. “So you don’t know what kind of things they’re going to have us doing?”
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She shrugged, her shoulders moving the straps of her white tank top. She moved them back into place. “Hiking, fishing, climbing, things like that. Audiences like to see people sweat.” He really didn’t care for that part of it. For being on display. But his back was to the wall. “Is the whole thing going to be televised?” “The best parts. Ratings.” She paused, studying him. She knew a little something about the kinds of people who turned out for these things. And he didn’t fit the category. “Why are you doing this? You don't seem like the type. I mean, you look rugged and all, but you look more like the forest ranger type.” He didn’t see the contradiction. “Isn’t that what you just said they were looking for?” “Forest ranger,” she elaborated, “as in working somewhere with a lot of trees and not that many people.” Joe shrugged, not wanting to get into his real reasons. “I want the prize money.” She laughed shortly. “Don’t we all?” Joe crossed his arms before him, taking measure of the woman. She was wearing a white tank top, hiking boots and denim shorts. Her body was taut and sinewy. She was right about him. He generally kept to himself. Questions about other people rarely occurred to him, but they were occurring now, about this feisty, sensual woman. “What would you do with it if you won?” Theresa’s answer was honest. “I’ve got a personal-training business that could use a jump-start.” “Is that what you are, a personal trainer?” She certainly had the body to advertise her techniques. Because she’d grown up the hard way, with failure grasping to pull her down at every turn, she was immediately defensive. “Why? Don’t I look it?” He held up his hand. “Every inch. But your short fuse could use some work,” he added. So the quiet cowboy thing was just an act. She’d met guys like him before. “And you’d be just the guy to help me work it, right?” “No,” he said. His answer caught her off guard. “But you might do well to know that not everything someone says is a challenge.” “Cooper, Knight, Jones, Conrad, Swartz.” The names were announced over the loud speaker. Their discussion tabled, Theresa rose to her feet quickly, ready to head out. “Looks like we get to hang out a little longer. Until you wash out,” she added with a grin. Joe said nothing as he followed her toward the man standing in the doorway with a clipboard in his hand. He saw no point in declaring that he had no intentions of washing out. Actions, he felt, always spoke louder than words. Chapter Four “You made it!” Jesse squealed when he returned with his grandmother later that evening to pick up his father. Joe lowered himself into the passenger seat, waving his mother back when she began to vacate the driver’s side. “You drive. I’m too tired. If I drive, we’ll wind up in an accident. I don’t have enough energy to lift my foot from the gas to the brake.”
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Elaine looked concerned as she watched her son strap in. “Joe, what did they have you doing?” “Everything,” he groaned. Joe leaned back against the seat, trying to absorb the comfort. On the verge of collapsing, it was still hard for his body to relax.He felt as if he’d been folded, spindled and mutilated. “We were competing for most of the day. Running, swimming, weight training - you name it, we did it. Over and over again. Did it until we dropped and they made their choices.” Jesse grabbed the back of his father’s seat. “But you didn’t drop, did you, Dad?” Joe exhaled deeply. “No, but I sure wanted to.” Jesse was fairly bouncing in his seat. “And you won, right, Dad?” “Not yet,” Joe reminded him. “But I’m one of the twenty who can.” It had been round after round of disqualifications all day long. There were times when he thought he wasn’t going to make it, but somehow he always managed to qualify. In the end, there were just twenty of them left. Five women and fifteen men. It didn’t surprise him that Theresa with her can-do/go-to-hell attitude had wound up being one of the final contestants. What did surprise him was that a part of him had been rooting her on. The next week was going to be really interesting, he decided. The competition was to last as long as it took one of them to reach destination’s end, the center of a ghost town accessible only over rough terrain. By the producers’ estimates, The Journey would most likely take at least the next week. And every step of the way was going to be immortalized on tape. The footage would then be edited and ultimately shown over five weeks, one hour a week. They had all been required to bring in signed statements from their doctors, testifying that they were in good health and could withstand a rigorous regimen. They were required to sign pledges of secrecy, saying that they would not disclose to anyone which of them had not made it to journey’s end until after the final show was broadcast. They would have no contact with friends or family while filming the show either, which Joe knew would be the hardest part for him. Joe packed a suitcase, and his doubts, two days after he’d tried out for the program and got on a plane bound for California, along with the other nineteen contestants. They were taken out on the town for one last night in “civilization,” told to “eat, drink and be merry,” because on the morn, all bets were off. Being “merry” included capping the evening off with dancing. He’d meant to only be an observer, but no one was allowed to stand on the sidelines, so he asked Theresa for a dance. It was the end of the evening, and the dance was a slow one. He was surprised by how easily she fit into his arms. She seemed to read his mind. “Don’t get too close to anyone,” she advised. “I’m game. Why?” She looked up at him. “Because you might have to double-cross them in the end.” She was putting him on notice, he thought. Amused, he smiled at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Theresa lay her head against his shoulder. A ripple went through him as he felt her breath slowly penetrate through his shirt and warm his skin.
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At the crack of dawn, they were all driven to the Colorado River, which boasted rapids the caliber the producers were looking for. “Okay, let’s go over the rules,” Benjamin Reed, the head producer, announced. At five-four he looked like a modern-day Napoleon as he moved amid the contestants, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression intense. “You and your team are to cross the rapids, climb up the side of Mt. Evans, hike through the forest and reach Cimarron, a ghost town located smack in the middle of nowhere. “The journey is roughly — and I do mean roughly — two hundred fifty miles of utterly inhospitable terrain.” His intense blue eyes took in every face around him one at a time. “You can only accept help from your team, no one else. Something goes wrong and one of the camera personnel or health facilitators are called into action, you’re disqualified. “You lose your rations, your tent, you’re out unless one of your team members steps in and shares theirs with you. As you approach the end of the journey, I want you all to start thinking for yourselves about yourselves. Any friendships you’ve formed are only going to work against you as you reach the ghost town. First one into the town’s square wins.” He paused dramatically as he looked at each one of them again. “And there’s only going to be one winner. Understood?” A smattering of low voices gave him the answer he expected. Joe looked at Theresa. She, along with three other men, a salesman, a premed student and an unemployed engineer, made up his team. “Doesn’t exactly breed brotherly love, does he?” Theresa looked at him with a shake of her head. Still the innocent. How could a grown man not know any better? Still, in an odd way, there was something gallant about that. She shut the thought away. “That’s not the object of the game, now is it?” It seemed more like cutthroat competition than a game to him, Joe thought, but he kept his opinion to himself. Reed continued talking. The roar of the rapids in the distance seemed to underscore his words. “Okay, that said, if you get into trouble, signal.” It was an order, not a suggestion. “We’re not looking to have anyone get hurt or killed here. It’s a friendly game,” he reminded them. “You’ve got cameras in your gear, cameras trained on you at all times no matter where you go. We’ll be there faster than your next thought if something goes wrong.” “Those cameras on us, um, does that include, um, nature breaks?” one of the women asked nervously. Reed grinned. “You can turn the camera off then. But only then.” He addressed the rest of them. “Now I want you to go out there and remember, have fun.” “Is that before or after we beat out everyone?” Theresa wanted to know. Reed made eye contact with her. Joe watched the exchange and wondered if the two had known each other before The Journey’s talent scouts had descended on the city. There seemed to be something familiar passing between them. “Before if you want,” Reed answered. “Definitely after.” The four teams moved to the side, getting out of the camera crew’s way as the latter group set up for the initial shot. In the background, a helicopter crew was ready to take off to capture the aerial shots. Joe was aware of Theresa standing next to him. She seemed so charged with energy, if she were a firecracker, he was positive she’d already be shooting out beams of lights from her fingertips.
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The thought that had occurred to him last night on the dance floor made a reappearance. She was a stunningly beautiful woman. But he reminded himself that he was a man whose soul had been burned away, so whether or not she was beautiful was supposed to hold very little meaning for him. Still, she was easy on the eyes. “Okay, we’ve divided you into teams, trying to balance out all four groups.” Rafts were being set up on the ground in front of each set of five. “Good luck,” Reed told them. “And may the best man — or woman — win.” Raising the starter pistol over his head, he squeezed the trigger. The sound was absorbed by the roar of the distant rapids. Five teams grabbed hold of their rafts and ran for the river amid shouts of “Geronimo” and similar cries to battle. The Journey had begun. Chapter Five When measured in miles, the section of the river that comprised the rapids seemed almost negligible. When calculated in breath-stealing seconds and heart-stopping tosses and turns, it seemed endless. All that was missing was a whirlpool. During this leg of The Journey, it felt to Joe as if time had stopped and eternity beckoned. Not today. He did his best to keep the latter at bay. Every single muscle in Joe’s body felt as if it had come alive, straining to the limit as he paddled hard in order to keep the raft he and the other four people were on from capsizing. Joe absolutely refused to be part of the first team to be disqualified in total. He’d navigated rapids only twice before in his life. Once with his father and brothers, Max, Sean and Ryan, and once with Sandra on their first married vacation. Either his memory had gone sentimental, or it had just gone, he thought, because neither time had felt as if it were a life-and-death struggle against foaming water and rock formations that seemed to appear out of nowhere, ready to do their damnedest to tip the raft over, or worse, disable it. His concentration so intent on the struggle, Joe was hardly aware that there were three other rafts around theirs in close proximity. For that matter, he was hardly aware of the people on his own raft. Except for the woman. The muscle formations on Theresa’s arms were prominent, fairly bulging as she fought with the river to hang on to her paddle. Water kept crashing over them. Her body glistened beneath the hot sun as the rapids waged a battle not only for control of the paddles, the raft and the people in it, but also to displace them within the raft with its own volume. All of them were drenched in a matter of seconds after they encountered the first set of rapids. She looked good wet.
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The thought burrowed its way into his head in between the strategies that were ricocheting through his brain. Strategies and random thoughts of not just failure but the dangers of miscalculation. It wouldn’t do to get too confident. The river could knock that confidence right out of you with a well-aimed wave. Joe wrapped his fingers more tightly around the paddle. They already hurt beyond aching. His concentration was shattered as he thought he heard a scream above the roar of the rapids. His head jerked around toward the sound in pure reflex. Theresa looked as if she was suspended in midair. In less than a heartbeat, her body would be over the side of the black rubber raft. Despite all the safeguards and precautions taken, she could be lost or killed in a matter of moments. Joe didn’t think, he reacted. Hooking his arm around her waist the second he saw her leave her seat, he dragged Theresa back down. For one horrible moment, she thought it was all over. She envisioned herself going down beneath the rapids, being pushed under by the swirling waters. And then suddenly, she was being pulled back down. She landed hard in the very space she’d vacated a second ago. His arm still wrapped around her waist, Joe could feel how fast she was breathing. So fast he couldn’t even begin to count the breaths. His own breathing wasn’t exactly moderate to mild, he thought. Adrenaline was doing double time through his veins. Theresa turned her head and looked at him, horror and shock plastered on her face, along with the ends of her curls. He couldn’t quite fathom the look in her eyes, but there wasn’t time to ponder it. All he knew was that it reached out to him where he lived. Something akin to an electrical shock had passed between them. And was still passing. “Breathe slower,” he ordered, “or you’ll hyperventilate.” The next second, he released her as the river became treacherous again. Her paddle gone, Theresa used her hands to try to move the raft along. The action, he knew, was futile, but there seemed no sense in pointing it out. All his attention was diverted to keeping them from capsizing. And then, as suddenly as the river had transformed into the spin cycle mode, it became calm. So calm that it seemed as if the whole section behind them was nothing but a mass hallucination. They were to continue paddling until they reached the next checkpoint. “Anyone know if there’re any more rapids up ahead?” The question was nervously posed by Jason, the premed student and easily the smallest of them. David, the real estate salesman, nodded. His short blond hair already beginning to dry as he blew out a long breath.
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“I think there’s another section up ahead a few miles.” He glanced at Joe, then at Theresa. “Nice catch.” Ed, the unemployed engineer, carefully avoided looking at Theresa as he said to Joe, “You were supposed to let her go overboard. That’s how the game is played.” They’d been assured that someone from the film crew would rescue any contestants who went into the river. Joe, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. And when it came to a human life, he wasn’t about to hang back and play the odds. “That’s not how I play the game,” Joe said firmly. He turned his mind toward business. “We lose anything?” “A paddle,” Theresa said ruefully. “Mine.” “Anything else?” Joe asked. “A tent,” Jason called out, taking a quick inventory of the items that were clustered together in the center of the raft. “Hey, weren’t those things supposed to be tied down?” Ed wanted to know. “Yeah, well, so were we,” Theresa pointed out. “And my strap broke.” Silently, she upbraided herself for having somehow miscalculated and taken the wrong seat. But she’d gotten turned around when the raft was being lowered into the river by the crew. “Whose tent?” David asked. Since she no longer had a paddle, Theresa checked the remaining tents to see what names were on them. She raised her eyes to look at Joe. “Joe’s.” They knew the rules. If a tent was lost, the person who it belonged to was disqualified unless someone on his team chose to share theirs with them. It was a way of winnowing down the contestants. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sounds of the river. And the echo of more rapids directly up ahead in the distance. Damn, Joe thought, for him the contest was over before it had hardly begun. What the hell was he going to do now? Theresa looked at the other men in the raft. All three suddenly became taken with their paddles and the water, avoiding eye contact. She knew what she was supposed to do. But then, so had Joe and he’d chosen not to follow instructions. Maybe she’d need him along the trail, she decided, trying to justify her next move. Knowing she was going to have to eventually. “You can share mine,” she told him. He didn’t seem to hear her. The offer had been made quietly and the river had stolen her words from her, swallowing them up whole as the volume went up around them. Theresa put her hand on top of his.
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The contact surprised him. That same sort of sizzling current passed through him. He looked up, stopping midstroke. “You can share my tent,” she said, raising her voice to be heard as she enunciated each syllable. He smiled his thanks as relief washed over him. The next moment, the river came alive again. They were headed for another set of rapids. “Hold on,” he ordered. “Here we go again!” Theresa braced herself. For more reasons than one. Chapter Six There were two more sets of rapids before the river finally turned peaceful. By the time they reached the designated area where all the teams were to set up camp, it was late afternoon and, to a man and/or woman, the contestants were all completely exhausted. They were also more than an entire team shy. Joe watched as two other teams dragged their rafts out of the water, parking them beside theirs on the riverbank. He and his team had been the first to make it to land, managing to arrive a little more than ten minutes ahead of the next team. That meant that tomorrow, they got that much of a start on the others. Of the fifteen people in the game besides his own team, he saw only nine. He turned toward Theresa, curious. “Where’s the fourth raft?” Theresa shook her head. “I’ll go and find out,” she volunteered. Hands shoved into her back pockets, she headed over to Reed. The producer was sitting in a director’s chair, watching over the proceedings like Nero presiding over his less than pleased subjects. He took to the role like a duck to water. oe dropped on the grass a few feet away from their raft, too tired at the moment to move or to even think about eating. A quick scan of the inside of the raft told him that it looked as if none of their packs had gone overboard. Which was damn lucky, he thought. Grateful or not, he sincerely doubted that Theresa would have gone so far as to share her food with him. Thinking about it, even her sharing her tent seemed like a stretch. He’d seen the look in her eyes the afternoon they’d been told that they had made the cut. Triumph instead of pleasure. As if she’d expected it. The woman was aggressive and she wanted to win. At all costs. Which was why her sharing the tent with him was strange. All she had to do was say nothing and he would have been disqualified. But maybe, he argued, she would have felt just too guilty, since he had saved her. Whatever the reason, he was glad that he still managed to remain in the contest without having to sacrifice any of his principles. Propping himself up on his elbows, he contemplated getting up again. The food wasn’t going to just pop into his mouth.
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Maybe just a couple of more minutes to pull himself together. He noticed that no one else appeared to be doing much moving, either. The all too real life-and-death struggle with the river had taken a great deal out of all of them. The next thing he was aware of was Theresa depositing herself on the grass beside him. Her leg brushed against his and if he wasn’t so damn tired, he would have sworn that another shock wave of electricity had accompanied the fleeting contact. It looked as if the river had taken more out of him than he’d thought. Otherwise, why was he feeling things now, in the middle of what was supposed to be a life-and-death contest? “The last team won’t be coming,” Theresa informed him. There was that triumphant look again, he thought. She reminded him of a warrior queen he’d seen in a docudrama on one of the public TV stations. Magnificent in her confidence. That was the word for her, he decided. Magnificent. “Their raft turned over. They had to be rescued.” She wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her head on her knees. “So did Holden.” Something strong and urgent stirred inside him. Joe banked down the urge to run the back of his hand along her cheek. Instead, he focused on what she was saying. “Holden?” “The guy in that team,” she pointed out several people close by. Grouped and immobile around their raft, by his count there were only four people on the grass. Which meant that one of their number had dropped out. “He didn’t have anyone on his raft willing to catch him.” It struck him as odd to have two such accidents occur at the same time. Especially with the safety precautions they’d taken. Everyone had strapped in the second they were in the raft. “Wasn’t he strapped in?” “Yeah, but his belt broke.” She raised her eyes to his. “Just like mine.” Was she insinuating something? “Think it was done on purpose?” She shrugged carelessly, even though she knew the answer to that. “Who knows? The producers like to throw curves at people.” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?” She looked at him sharply, but there was no accusation in his eyes, only the vague question shimmering between them. She told herself she was being too paranoid. Theresa allowed herself a small smile. The man was easy to smile at. “Don't you watch reality programs?” He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.” It was an odd admission for a man embroiled in the middle of the newest reality show slated to hit the airwaves. “What do you watch?” “Police dramas. An occasional comedy when I think it might be funny instead of dumb.” He paused, then admitted, “Saturday morning cartoons with my son. You?” “I don't watch much TV — except for a couple of the reality programs,” she added quickly. “I’m usually at the gym, teaching a class or making up a workout for a client.”
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He’d seen her in the gym when they were being tested. She was a thing of beauty. Her body moved like poetry. It took effort to remind himself that he was a prose kind of person. “What do you do for fun?” He was sitting way too close. And she was thinking things that were completely out of line for what she needed to do. Twilight was stirring things up too much, she decided. Making her feel strangely vulnerable. That had never happened before, not even once. Theresa deliberately scooted back on the bank. “Sleep,” she finally said. “I’m usually dead tired by the end of the day.” He thought of his life ever since he’d returned to the ranch with Jesse. Filled end to end with either work or his son. That didn’t leave much time for him. “I know exactly what you mean.” The air seemed to stand still between them. Urges began to move through her. This wasn’t the time and it certainly wasn’t the place. At best, they were misguided. She’d been vulnerable back there and Joe had rescued her. What she was feeling now was strictly a knee-jerk reaction to the situation. Problem was, it wasn’t just her knee that was involved. The problem got worse. Maybe volunteering to share a tent with Joe hadn’t been such a good idea, Theresa thought. The tent was small, the space crammed. It was filled with arms and legs and a hell of a lot of tension that seemed to be left over from their life-and-death struggle on the river earlier. She could tell by his breathing that he was awake. “Joe?” “Yeah?” His voice was low, sexy in the dark. “You’re not asleep, are you?” She heard the soft laugh. “Doesn’t look like it.” “Why did you rescue me today?” Turning, she propped herself up on her elbow. His face was mostly in shadow. She could just about make it out. “Don’t you want the money?” “Yes, but I’m not about to sacrifice who I am to get it. Besides, you could have gotten hurt.” His words, his concern, thrilled her. She didn’t want them to. She wasn’t here for that. “They had rescue teams standing by.” He’d never been one of those people who could just stand by and let things happen without trying to do something about it. “By the time one of them reached you, a lot of things could have happened.” She smiled to herself as she shook her head. “Have you always been this decent?” She saw him shrug. “It’s a congenital thing.” Desire flared up another notch. She needed to diffuse it a little. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” He braced himself for some flippant assessment of his code of ethics. “Okay.” Instead of words, he found her leaning into him. Felt her breath along his face. Her lips softly pressing against his.
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The graveyard that had been his soul suddenly experienced life. Vividly. He felt something warm unfurling inside his belly. Long, golden fingers of light reached out, probing through all the darken corners of his being. “I don't think it’s possible to take that the wrong way,” he murmured when she finally moved back. She smiled. “I just wanted to say thank-you.” With that, she lay down again and turned her back to him. It took a long time for his pulse to settle. Even longer for the rest of his body to catch up. He was going to feel like hell in the morning. Maybe that was even her intent, he thought, recalling what she’d said to him on the dance floor. He didn’t know. All he knew was that for now, he felt pretty damn good. Chapter Seven His body was still humming the next day. Whether it was because of his tent companion or the challenge that he knew lay ahead of him, Joe wasn’t certain. For the sake of argument, he was willing to assign equal blame. Joe forced himself to focus. The next leg of their journey took them to Mt. Evans. And then up Mt. Evans. As far as mountains went, it wasn’t one to top any lists as to degree of difficulty or height or danger. That didn’t negate the fact that it was still a mountain and they still had to scale up the side of it with harnesses, winches and ropes. And their fingertips. Rock climbing was the next challenge to be faced. He secretly blessed his father. While other men golfed, his father sought relaxation in pitting himself against nature like a modern-day Kit Carson. Camping, rock climbing, white-water rafting, trailblazing, hunting...all of this had been second nature to his father. And he had passed on his survival traits to his sons. Except maybe to Max, he thought. Max was far more comfortable in a boardroom than the wild. For safety reasons, each team had an experienced rock climber at its head, hired by the studio. The threat of injuries and law suits was a very real concern on the part of the producers, even though the audiences who ultimately watched the contest would never be privy to that part of the show. Joe followed Frank Jessop, his team leader, up the side of Mt. Evans. Theresa elected to take her place behind Joe. “You’ve been lucky for me,” she told him when he gave her a quizzical look as she began to hook up her harness to his. To her surprise, he placed his hand in the way, preventing her from making the connection. “I was going to say you might do better at the end of the line.” He expected her to take immediate offense at the suggestion. She didn’t disappoint him. Why?” she demanded, bristling. Joe knew that the notion that there was a physical difference between men and women as far as strength was concerned was distasteful to her, but it was true. Even though she might have been in better physical
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condition than the other members of their team, when it came to raw body strength, he had a feeling she’d come in last. It wasn’t so much a matter of protecting her, he silently argued, as it was in keeping anyone from getting hurt. “Because if there’s a problem with any of the climbers, I don’t think you have the body strength to help pull them back up.” He didn’t think, he knew, but to phrase it that way would only get him drawn into verbal combat. And they were wasting time. “That would make you a liability.” Her eyes narrowed at what she felt was an insult. “I can pull my own weight,” she snapped. He thought of the weight she’d pressed at the gym. It had been impressive. “I don't doubt it. But you can’t pull David’s, Ed’s and Jason’s.” And if she was ahead of them, that was exactly what she might have to do. “One wrong move on your part, or theirs, and it’s like a domino effect.” Her hands were on her hips, her whole body challenging him. She’d spent years fighting her way up and she resented even a hint of the years that had gone before, when people tried to keep her down. When they didn’t see her, but where she lived. She hated sweeping generalities. “Well, aren’t you the expert.” His smile was slow, easy, and she found it completely unsettling even though she was angry. “As a matter of fact, I am.” Theresa stewed a minute. Damn him, he was right and she knew it. Muttering under her breath, she turned on her heel and went to the back of the line. They lost two from their team. By the time they reached the top of the mountain, David, the real estate salesman, had missed his footing during the climb, panicked, missed it again and wound up spraining his ankle. Jason, their pre-med student, tended to it before announcing that he was dropping out from the race, as well. “It’s too risky,” he told Joe when the latter asked him why. “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me with a great future. I want to be a surgeon and who knows what could happen on this so-called journey? David sprained his ankle. I could break the bones in my hand.” Jason held up his right one to emphasize his point. “And then where would I be?” He rose to his feet. He was going to accompany David when the man was airlifted back to a hospital. “It’s just not worth it to me.” “And then there were three,” Theresa pronounced as she watched Jason hurry off beside David’s stretcher as two paramedics carried him to the helicopter. “Nine,” Joe corrected, nodding at the other teams that were still in on the race. “From the looks of it, they’ve had people dropping out, too.” It had taken them four hours to climb to the top of Mt. Evans, with several rest stops worked into the test. His entire body ached from head to foot. But sitting at the top of the mountain, as Joe looked out on the panoramic view, it almost seemed the incredible effort it had taken to get there was well worth it. Theresa came up behind him. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” He looked at her over his shoulder. The same words could be applied to her, he thought. The wind that was a permanent resident up there was playing with the ends of her hair, teasing him. Making him want to run his hand through it. “You might say that.”
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She felt his eyes on her. Was he flirting with her? No, Joe Cooper wasn’t the kind of man who flirted. He was meat and potatoes, Mom and apple pie. And all the things she’d aspired to when she was growing up on the wrong side of the tracks in L.A. Looking for that chance to break out. To be someone else. And not die as a statistic, the way so many of her friends and family had. Joe roused himself before he let his mind get carried away. “What’s for dinner?” “I don't know about you, but all I’ve got left are power bars.” Squatting down beside her backpack, she opened it and rummaged around in it. “I’ve got my choice of melted —” she held up one “— or not melted.” She held up a second bar. That pretty much mirrored what he had in his own pack. They were going to have to find their own supplies tomorrow. “Take the melted. It’ll save you the trouble of having to chew.” “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?” Theresa laughed. And then the laughter died when she looked into his eyes. Again, she felt something stirring. “You want to get a head start getting through the woods?” Ed asked, coming up behind them. “We lost some time on the climb because of David. I thought we’d get it back if we went as far as we could through the forest before nightfall.” Taking out one of the granola bars, she closed her backpack. “Okay with me.” Joe nodded. They’d come in first during the run over the rapids and had gotten a head start climbing, but as Ed had just pointed out, that had been lost when David had gotten injured. “Let’s go.” “Just let me make a pit stop,” Theresa requested. Not waiting for an answer, she hurried off with her backpack to one of the three portable toilets that had been brought out for them. There was no cover up here and everyone had an inalienable right to relieve themselves when nature called without the benefit of an audience. It was part of the contract they signed. The moment she got into the portable toilet and closed the door, Theresa slipped her Palm Pilot out of her pack and turned it on. The device was also a two-way communicator and the person on the other end listened intently as she began to speak in a low voice. Chapter Eight Theresa looked beautiful by the firelight. They’d been on the trail for two days now and with each evening, Joe was increasingly more grateful that the engineer was still part of their team. Otherwise, he would be sitting out here alone with Theresa and that might not be a good thing. He wasn’t sure that the knowledge that he might be captured on film at an inopportune moment would stop him from ultimately giving in to the desires that were growing inside him like weeds after a spring rain. Especially when moonlight wove itself through her hair and slid invitingly along her skin. But with Ed sitting across from them, finishing up the last of the rabbit he’d caught for them after turning a stick into a hunting spear, Joe felt relatively safe. Until he heard the shriek pierce the air.
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Sitting crossed-legged beside him on the ground, Theresa tensed, her eyes wide as she scanned the immediate area. She seemed to instinctively leaninto him. “What was that?” Joe listened intently. The shriek came again. Closer this time. A chill went over him as he recognized the sound. “Mountain lion.” Ed jumped to his feet, petrified. “Here?” Close, Joe thought. Very close. On his feet, Joe felt adrenaline surge through him. Again. “This is their terrain, we’re the trespassers.” “I don't find that very comforting.” Theresa was standing so close to him, she edged out his shadow. “You didn’t happen to whittle a gun and bullets while you were making that spear, did you?” He shook his head, his eyes trying to penetrate the dark. Looking for the mountain lion. “Sorry.” The spear used to secure their dinner had been turned into a spit. The rabbit had been mounted on it over the small fire and roasted. Grabbing it now, Theresa shoved the spear at him. “But you can still get him with this, right?” Taking it from her, Joe shook his head doubtfully. “It’d be like using a toothpick on a wild dog.” “Well, do something,” Ed pleaded. “Where the hell is Security?” He didn’t know. Joe was acutely aware that they were all alone. “Maybe they’re watching on their monitors.” “Getting mauled to death is not supposed to be part of the entertainment.” Ed’s words ended in almost a sob. And then suddenly, the mountain lion was there, standing just on the perimeter of the campsite. Panicked, Ed bolted. The cat looked as if it was about to give chase. Ed didn’t stand a chance. Moving quickly, Joe placed himself between the fleeing man and the wild animal, shoving Theresa behind him. Lifting his hands over his head as high as he could and using the spear as an extension, unearthly, guttural noises rose from deep within his gut. It almost sounded inhuman. After a moment’s hesitation, the mountain lion turned and ran in the opposite direction. Away from Joe and Theresa. Away from the campsite and Ed, who had disappeared. Theresa realized that she had been holding her breath, afraid to exhale. She exhaled now, then sucked in more air, struggling to keep from throwing up. And then she turned toward Joe and did some yelling of her own. “Are you out of your mind?” He could have been killed, getting in front of the mountain lion like that. He knew it had to seem crazy to her. Joe tossed down the spear. “No, actually, I’m not. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you come face-to-face with a mountain lion. If you run, he’ll only come after you and he’s a hell of a lot faster than anything human. He would have made a late-night snack out of Ed.” “Speaking of Ed, where is he?” There was no sign of the engineer. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, but got no answer.
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“He’s probably still running,” Joe guessed. “Lucky thing they put those tracking bracelets on us.” He looked down at the one a member of the crew had snapped on his wrist at the start of the contest. She’d forgotten about that. The encounter with the mountain lion had made her forget about everything. Except what a brave man Joe was. “I guess they’ll find him.” Joe thought of a potential problem. “If they know enough to look for him.” “They’ll know,” she replied. “With all those cameras trained on us, they’re bound to know our every move.” Even as her words died away, one of the film crew came out of the darkness and walked into the campsite. “We’ve got Ed on our radar,” he assured them. “Don’t figure he’s going to want to get back to the game, though.” The crew member was right. Ed was the next one to drop out. By the time the last leg of the journey was in play, there were only five of them left. And then four. And then three. Until finally, it was just Joe and Theresa. Somewhere in the back of his mind, from the moment he’d first seen her, Joe had known it would come down to this. He’d felt it in his bones. The woman was too stubborn to drop out and he was too determined. A line about the immovable object meeting the irresistible force went through his head. The night before the end of the journey, after religiously checking every conceivable hiding place for cameras, Joe and Theresa turned in. When she zipped up the tent’s front flaps, he looked at her quizzically. She’d never done that before. “Privacy,” she explained. The word hummed between them as she began to unbutton her shirt. Joe felt his heart come to life. Turning, he shut off the lantern. Eliminating their shadows on the tent. “Privacy,” he echoed, reaching for her. He undid the rest of the buttons. They made love. Slowly. With feeling. It was as inevitable as the tide. The life-and-death encounters they’d experienced over these past few days had packed a lifetime into them. It had made Joe aware that life moved forward. And so did he. Morning came creeping in softly. When he reached for Theresa, he found her space empty. She was gone. So was her gear. He bolted upright, upbraiding himself for his own stupidity. He’d let his guard down. “Damn.” He told himself that it was to be expected. The woman was out to win.
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But what Theresa had on him in time, he could make up for with speed. It took him less than five minutes to get dressed and hit the trail. He figured that his best bet was to track her. Because time was of the essence, he left his backpack behind, needing to travel as light as possible. He took only a knife and a rope, plus his canteen. The ghost town and journey’s end was not that far away. He heard Theresa before he ever saw her. “Help me. Please help me.” The cry seemed to be coming out of the very ground. And then he saw it. A hole about three feet in diameter, partially hidden in the earth. He would have missed it if it wasn’t for her cries. Coming closer, Joe realized that the hole was actually what was left of a well. It was obvious that in her hurry to reach the center of the ghost town, Theresa hadn’t seen the hole until it was too late. Joe knelt down over the opening. Theresa was some ten feet below him. And apparently angrier than a hornet. He couldn’t help grinning. Any anger he might have felt over betrayal faded. What goes around comes around, his mother always liked to say. Nice to know it was true. “Hello, Theresa, fancy running into you here.” “Oh Joe, thank God you found me.” She was leaning against the wall as if her legs couldn’t fully support her. “Get me out of here!” He made no move to rescue her. In his estimation, she deserved to stew a little. Especially after last night. He’d thought it had meant something to her. The way it had to him. She’d gotten his guard completely down. Had that been her intent from the start? “If I do that, what’s to stop you from finding a way to trick me out of the prize?” “I can’t. I twisted my ankle, just like David. Joe, please, get me out! There’re snakes down here!” He paused a moment longer. There’d never really been any question that he was going to get her out. “Hang on.” Uncoiling the rope, he dropped the end down to her, then, braced, she took hold and began to climb. Grabbing her by the arm, he managed to pull her out the rest of the way. The second Theresa was out of the hole, she scrambled to her feet and began to run. Stunned, he sprang up and gave chase. “You said you sprained your ankle.” “I lied!” she tossed over her shoulder. She reached the square a little more than two steps ahead of him. And won the contest. The center of the ghost town immediately filled with people. The producers were all there, as was the camera crew.
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Choice words ran through Joe’s head as he watched Benjamin Reed hand a symbolic check for the prize money to Theresa. But there was nothing he could do about it. Like the good sport he’d always been, he came up and congratulated her. “Not the way I would have run it,” he admitted. “But congratulations on winning the race.” His mouth fell open as she handed the check to him. “Take it,” she prompted. “It’s yours.” She smiled warmly at him. “Good guys don’t always finish last, cowboy. Sometimes they finish first.” The producer made no effort to take the oversized check from him. Joe shook his head. He looked from the six zeroes to Theresa. “I don’t understand.” She grinned, although she hesitated for a moment, not sure how he was going to react to the news. “I’m a ringer. The producers paid me to stir things up and make sure everyone was being tested to the limit.” She took a breath. “You didn’t have any limits. You threw us all a curve.” And then she added something personal. “You’re the first honest man I’ve ever met, cowboy. And the best,” she added more quietly. Gratitude had him catching her up in his arms and kissing her. And then gratitude slipped away, to be replaced by something deeper and more lasting. He was going to be able to save his mother’s ranch. And he’d discovered that he still wanted to stay in the game, to live life. Because of Theresa. “Want to throw them another curve?” he asked when he finally drew his head back and looked at her. Her heart was hammering hard enough to imitate a drumroll. She was afraid to guess what was on his mind. “Such as?” He’d learned a great deal about her in the past five days. Things that told him he wanted this woman at his side for the rest of their lives. Last night in her tent had been the clincher. He knew he was putting himself out on a limb, but just like the contest he’d just won, some things were worth taking risks for. “Will you marry me?” “Will I?” she cried. She couldn’t say any more. Her mouth was otherwise occupied. For some time to come. And the cameras just kept rolling, recording it all for the pleasure of their audience.
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WIFE FOR REAL by Kate Walker Eight years ago, Louise spent the night in the arms of her first love, Alex, the illegitimate son of her family's housekeeper. She awoke to find herself alone, and soon learned that her stepmother's jewelry had been stolen during the night. She angrily accused Alex of the theft. After Alex was cleared of the charges, he left town, never knowing that Louise was already carrying his child.… Alex has never forgotten the pain Louise caused him when she wrongly accused him of committing a crime. After discovering his real father was a Spanish aristocrat, Alex went to live with him, vowing never to return to England or to Louise. He's made his fortune in Spain, but when he receives an anonymous message concerning Louise, he can't resist the temptation to return once more to Helpcote Manor.… Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One "So you're my wife, are you? Well, that's interesting!" Eyes the color of a storm-heavy sky raked over Louise's slender figure as she stood in the doorway of her cottage, so transfixed by shock that she was unable to move. Even the jeans and warm cherry-red sweater she wore were suddenly no protection against the cold. "Tell me, mi esposa —" he laced the words with dark satire "— when exactly were you going to inform me of this fact?" "I wasn't.…'" It was all that Louise could manage. In the moments since she had opened the front door in response to an imperious and impatient sounding knock, she barely recognized her world in the center of the emotional tornado that whirled around her. But she certainly recognized the man who stood on her doorstep. Eight years was a long time, but she would always know Alex anywhere. His sort of superb bone structure only got better with age. He was too tall, too dark, too imposing — too devastating physically — ever to forget, even if she didn't have deeply personal reasons for never being able to put him out of her mind. "You weren't?" The darkly satirical tone deepened on the question. "You weren't going to tell me — your husband — of this secret marriage? Didn't you think that would be wise, or at least courteous, querida?" "No." It was the honest truth. She had certainly never thought that her foolish and impulsive declaration would ever have been believed by anyone. And she had definitely never thought that it would reach the ears of Alex Anderson — Alex Alcolar, as she supposed she must now think of him since he had taken his father's name. He was hundreds of miles away, living his new life in Spain. He would never hear of her, or spare her a thought, let alone give a damn about the unthinking cover-up she had used in a moment of crisis. But it seemed that he had. And what had been purely and simply an impulsive act of defence had turned into another unneeded complication in her life. The worst sort of complication of all. She did not want Alex back in her life.
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"I wasn't going to tell you any of it. So who did?" Alex shrugged broad shoulders under a fine leather jacket. "I don't know. I received an anonymous letter, posted in this village, telling me that I was neglecting my wife. The wife I didn't know I had. So naturally I came as quickly as I could." "But you must have known that the 'marriage' wasn't a real one. And that it had nothing to do with you." "Nothing?" His echoing of the word was riddled with scepticism and mockery. "If you're using my name, claiming to be my wife, then I think it has everything to do with me. As I recall, when you knew me before, your father didn't think I was fit to associate with your family, and you ended up swallowing everything he said. Now suddenly you're claiming to be married to me! So I think you'd better start explaining. Start by telling me where, exactly, this wedding took place." "You don't really need me to answer that do you?" Louise tossed at him, hazel eyes sparking defiance. "Because you know where — exactly. Nowhere! The wedding didn't take place anywhere. As you are only too aware, there was no wedding ever!" To her surprise he actually smiled, the curve of his lips and the light in his clear gray eyes brightening his whole face and making her stomach turn over, her pulse quicken in instant response. "I'm glad to hear that. I was beginning to wonder if my mind was going. Or at least my memory — because I have no recollection…" "Of course you don't! And there's nothing wrong with your mind, as you know only too well. You've not forgotten anything. In fact, you must have known that all this was nonsense in the first place — so why, exactly, are you here now? What on earth made you travel all the way from — from…" "From Andalusia," Alex supplied. "That's where I live now." "Of course. That's why you're suddenly littering your conversation with Spanish phrases!" The Alex she had once known hadn't spoken a word of Spanish. He hadn't even known that he had any Spanish connections — that the blood of a Spanish aristocrat ran in his veins. It had only been after his mother had died that he had discovered the truth about his father. "I am Spanish," Alex put in coldly. "At least, half-Spanish. My father is Spanish. My home and my work are in Andalusia. Most days I speak nothing but Spanish." "Which makes it all the more puzzling why you've bothered to come here.…" And that was a question that he had been asking himself for days, Alex admitted. Why was he travelling to England on what was little more than a whim? Why had he snatched at the smallest excuse to get on a plane and head straight back to the village where he had grown up? The village that he believed he had left far behind in his past, where it belonged. He thought he'd shaken the dust of the place from his feet and that he would never, ever go back to the woman who had once almost destroyed his life — and yet now here he was. So why? Because he couldn't help himself.
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"I wanted to meet the woman who claimed to be my wife." His beautiful mouth curved into a smile that made Louise's blood run cold. "I wanted to see what had become of you." "Nothing exciting as you can see. In fact nothing at all!" The rather wild hand gesture took in herself and her surroundings, betraying more than she wanted to reveal. These were not at all the conditions in which she had lived in the past. And she knew from the way that Alex's eyes narrowed swiftly that he, too, was remembering how it had once been. "What happened?" It was cold, crisp, incisive. She didn't want to answer, but she knew he wouldn't let her dodge the question. "Do you mean why am I here, in this cottage, instead of up at the manor house where I used to be? Things change, Alex! Nothing remains the same." "You have," he put in sharply. "You haven't changed. You're still as beautiful as ever." It was the last thing she expected, and it hit her with the force of a blow to her chest, driving all the breath from her body. And what made matters worse was the new and disturbing darkness that hadn't been there before in those gray eyes. A darkness that spoke of physical arousal and a smouldering sensuality that stirred memories she had thought long buried. Memories she wanted to stay hidden. "No…" she managed huskily, not at all sure precisely what she was saying no to. "Yes," Alex countered, the single word rough on his tongue. "You're just as lovely as you always were. More, if that were possible…" The single step he took forward broke the spell that seemed to have coiled around her. It brought him too close. Too near. Another couple of movements and he would have been right here in her house — her home — and that would be more than she could bear. "No!" she cried, much more emphatically this time. And whirling she dashed into the cottage, slamming the door right in his face. "Go away!" she shouted, praying her words would reach him through the thickness of the wooden barrier. "I don't want you here!" The silence was unexpected and disturbing. Could he really have gone? Could it have been that easy? It wasn't. She barely had time to even think about relaxing when a faint sound from the back of the house had her stiffening again. The dash through to the kitchen must have only taken seconds, but she was still too late. The back door opened and Alex stepped into the tiny room, kicking the door shut and leaning back against it. "All right, Louise," he said. "Don't you think it's about time you started explaining?"
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Chapter Two "Well?" Alex demanded when the seconds that had ticked away since he had asked the question grew into minutes and still Louise hadn't answered him. "Are you going to tell me just what's going on?" "Nothing. Nothing that would interest you anyway." "Ah, but there you're wrong. I am interested. And you have to admit that I have cause. After all, why would you suddenly claim to be my wife when we haven't seen each other for over eight years? When all that there ever was between us was an adolescent fling that was over before it started?" Liar! His conscience reproved him. It might have been an adolescent fling to her, but to him it had been the forming relationship of his life. The relationship against which he had measured every woman he had ever met since — and found them lacking. And if he wanted the reason why he was here, back where he had sworn he would never be again, then it was quite painfully simple. It could be summed up in two short words. Louise Browning. He had never forgotten her. Never been able to get her out of his mind. And given half an excuse to come back and see her again, he had been on the plane before he had even had time for second thoughts. "So what I want to know is just why you should lay claim to the name of a man you hated, a man who…" "I never hated you!" Louise broke in sharply, unable to let that go. "No?" "No!" And it wasn't just "an adolescent fling," she wanted to add. She had adored him. Loved him with all the strength of her young heart. And he had broken that heart when he had walked out of her life for good, leaving her alone and pregnant. Oh no — no! She could not — must not — think of Gabrielle. To do so would destroy her. Especially now, with the living example of her daughter's heritage standing right there in front of her. If her baby had lived would she have had Alex's dark coloring, those beautiful gray eyes…? Desperately she forced her attention back to the present. "Well, you certainly gave me the impression that you couldn't stand the sight of me," Alex drawled. "That you wanted me out of your life for good.' "As I recall, you were the one claiming that it was over and done with." She had come to him to tell him that she was carrying his child, and he had refused to listen. "You were on your way out to your new life — your new family in Spain." "Louise, I had nothing to keep me here. My mother was dead." You didn't want me.…
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"My father had suddenly decided to acknowledge my existence. I was barely twenty-one and a whole new future suddenly offered itself. I had lost my job, narrowly avoided ending up in prison…" Alex pushed himself away from the door and came to stand in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. Looking at them, Louise felt shivers of sensual awareness slide down her spine. It was impossible not to recall the pleasure those hands had given her in the past. "Tell me, did you really think that I was callous enough to have left you asleep after making love to you and gone though your parents' house, helping myself —" "I didn't know what to think. I woke up and I was alone." "So would you have preferred that I stayed? And been found there when your father came home? That would have been fun." "But then I found that all my stepmother's jewellery had gone…" And foolishly she'd swallowed her father's belief that Alex wasn't to be trusted. "So you told your parents everything. You must have known they'd hit the roof.""I couldn't just keep quiet." "No, you did the one thing guaranteed to raise your father's blood pressure even higher. You let him know that I had taken his precious daughter's virginity. Tell me, Louise —" Alex levered himself away from the table and began to prowl round the small kitchen "— did you really think that would help me get a fair hearing?" "I didn't know what else to say," Louise admitted edgily. She wished he would stand still — or sit down — anything other than this disturbingly restless movement. He seemed too big, too powerful, too elemental to be enclosed in the confined space of the tiny room. And her own guilt and the bitterness of her memories blended uneasily with the potently sexual appeal he seemed to project without any effort to produce a dangerously explosive combination. "I felt hurt — more than hurt. I felt betrayed! I thought you'd used me. I was only nineteen. If it makes you feel any better, when I found out that Geoff Thornton had been caught trying to sell the jewellery, I hated myself. I had never thought they'd sack you anyway." "No?" Alex had come to stand in front of her, looking down into her pale face surrounded by the tumble of soft brown hair. Those changeable eyes were deep mossy green in this light, clouded with anxiety. "What did you think they'd do? Welcome the gardener — the housekeeper's son — into the family? The Brownings of Helpcote Manor? You were young, Louise, but not that foolish." Moving this close to her had been a mistake, Alex admitted to himself. A big mistake. When he'd kept his distance he'd also been able to keep control of his feelings. But up close like this he could see the peachfine texture of her skin, smell the faint floral scent of some soap or body lotion she had used. They said that scent was the sense most likely to evoke powerful memories, and right now he could well believe it was true. Sensual hunger clawed at him instantly and cruelly and the burn of it roughened his voice when he spoke, though this time on a very different note. "We were both young then. But we've grown up since. I know I have, and you…" He reached out and closed both hands over the delicate bones of her shoulders.
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"You've changed from a lovely girl into a beautiful, desirable woman…" Not this. The words sounded in Louise's head but she couldn't force them out onto her tongue. Her throat seemed to have seized up, her lips frozen, and all she could do was wait for the kiss that she knew was coming. The kiss that she could read he wanted in the darkness of his eyes. It was his gentleness that shocked her. The almost delicate, slow taking of her mouth brushed away her doubts, her fears, her hesitation on a sigh of sheer delight. She felt her senses swim, her heart kick up a beat. The last time he had kissed her they had both been so young, not much more than adolescents. He had kissed her like a boy, with a boy's urgency and impatient hunger. Now he kissed her like a man — a man who knew exactly how to treat a woman. He made her feel intensely female, totally sensual, all woman. And she wanted more. With another sigh, a very different one this time, she moved closer, slid her hands up around his neck, pulling his head down toward hers to deepen the kiss. She let her tongue dance with his, heard the heavy thud of his heart, felt the heated pressure of his desire against the softness of her stomach, and the no that had formed in her thoughts melted away into a deep and totally submissive yes, oh yes "No!" It was Alex who spoke this time. And his tone made it plain that there was no room for argument, no chance of debate. His body spoke more clearly than his words, stiffening and pulling away from her, twisting free of her clinging hands and leaving her feeling cold and lost and desperately alone. "No!" he said more forcefully this time. "This is not going to happen." The fight he was having against the demands of his senses made it sound far harsher, more brutal than he had actually intended, but perhaps that was just as well. In the past he had let his physical responses to Louise drown out the warning cries of his thoughts — and look where that had got him. Homeless, unemployed, and facing possible criminal charges. Well, he'd learned his lesson. Things had to be very different this time. "This is not what I came here for." "Oh, isn't it?" The misery of rejection forced the words from her. "I thought it was exactly what you wanted!" "Well then, you thought wrong. The only thing I want is an explanation. I want to know why you're using my name when you have no right to." Chapter Three "You want an explanation! You want to know why I'm using your name! A name I have 'no right to!' You've got very arrogant since you exchanged Alcolar for Anderson!" "If you mean I don't bow and scrape to the lady of the manor anymore," Alex tossed back, "I don't do that for anyone. So are you going to explain why you're suddenly claiming to be my wife?"
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"I told you…" Alex's wide, sensual mouth twisted cynically as his gray eyes flicked over her dismissively. "You told me, 'nothing's going on.'" Then, just as Louise nerved herself for more, he suddenly shocked her totally by switching on a smile. But it was a smile that was totally lacking in warmth; his eyes were shards of ice. "Okay," he said. "If that's the way you want it…" And to Louise's horror he turned and headed straight for the door. Would she let him go? he wondered. Or would she weaken and call him back? He had seen the shadows in her eyes and wondered privately just what had put them there. Another step or two and his fingers had closed over the door handle. Turned it. Behind him he heard Louise draw in a deep, raw-edged sigh and let it out again in a despondent rush. "Alex. Please…I — I need your help." *** "Where exactly are we going?" Alex's patience was rapidly wearing thin. When Louise had admitted that she needed his help, he had thought that at last they were getting somewhere. But she hadn't explained a thing. Instead she had snatched a coat from the hook in the hall, told him to come with her and headed out into the biting wind and threatening rain of a January afternoon. "You'll see when we get there." All right, let her be mysterious. He didn't have to stick around if it didn't suit him. But this journey was bringing back memories. Memories that told him they were heading for the manor house. He'd walked this way often enough in his youth. The journey from the village had been one he had made almost every day when he'd worked in the gardens there and his mother had been the housekeeper. But of course he'd made the journey with Louise at his side. Their brief, passionate relationship had had to be conducted in secret, for fear that her parents might find out. "Is this car really yours?" Louise knew she was only speaking to fill the awkward silence. She was sharply, disturbingly aware of Alex's size and strength beside her in the confined space. The rangy youth she had known had grown into a powerful and intensely masculine man. The wild wind outside had tossed his black hair over his forehead and tiny diamonds of raindrops sparkled in the jet-dark strands. "Well, I certainly didn't steal it if that's what you're thinking." "I never thought any such thing!" But her conscience told her that she had only herself to blame for the cynical dig.
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"I should have trusted you," she blurted out before her courage deserted her. "What?" Louise snatched in a sharp, calming breath, trying to suppress the million butterflies that had suddenly started beating frantic wings deep inside her stomach. "I should have known that you wouldn't have stolen my stepmother's jewelry." She should have listened to her heart instead of her head. But wasn't the truth that her weak, foolish heart had been totally untrustworthy, too? Her heart had told her that in Alex she had found the love of her life, the man with whom she wanted to spend all her tomorrows. But he had had what he'd wanted from her and then he'd turned his back on her. She should have realized what was coming that morning — the morning after he'd taken her virginity — when she'd woken up and found herself alone. What was it he had said when she'd gone to him to try to tell him about the baby? "It was fun, darling — but not that special." And then he'd left. He'd gone to live his new life in Spain, and he hadn't spared her a single thought. "Melissa was spitting nails, as I remember." Alex's casual tone belied the tautness of his jaw, the way that every hard line of his profile was pulled tight over his stunning bone structure. Louise's lack of faith in him had been a betrayal that had savaged his soul. "I think she was truly disappointed to discover that it was Thornton who actually had all her diamonds." He steered the car carefully around an awkward bend. "So where is she now?" Louise shifted awkwardly on the soft leather seat, the movement bringing a wave of soft, floral scent that stirred his senses cruelly. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "In Australia. She married again soon after my father died." "Yes, I heard about that. I'm sorry. " "It was very sudden. A heart attack." "That must have been hard on you." Louise managed a mumble that might have been an agreement. Her father's death had been a terrible shock, but she hadn't been prepared for the problems that had followed after it. She hadn't really had time to mourn him before her world had collapsed around her. "Turn here," she said, as much to distract herself as to direct him. "I gathered this was — What the hell…?" Alex slammed on the brakes with nothing like his usual care or skill. As soon as the car had come to a halt he was out of the car and standing, staring around him in disbelief and confusion.
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The big old house that had once been so loved and cared for now stood empty and neglected. The ivy that climbed up one wall was overgrown and wild, as were the lawns that edged the gravelled driveway. Weeds poked up from every flowerbed, and the rose garden that had once been Louise's father's pride and joy was just a tangle of withered blooms and unpruned branches. But what shocked him most of all was the large, roughly painted sign: Private property. Keep out! Trespassers will be prosecuted. "What happened here?" Louise got out of the car and came to stand beside him, looking very vulnerable and lost as she huddled into her coat. "Geoff Thornton happened," she said miserably. "When he got out of prison he came back here." "And?" Alex prompted harshly, because there had to be an and "And he managed to make some money — legal or not, I don't know. He set himself up in a casino." Her hazel eyes, sheening with unshed tears, slid to the desolation of the old house, and Alex thought he understood. "And your father —" "No!" she interrupted him, shaking her head emphatically so that her soft brown hair flew around her pale face. "Not my father — Melissa. My stepmother got hooked on gambling. She lost — heavily. My father found out and paid her debts once and she promised it wouldn't happen again." "But it did?" "Yes." It was low and miserable. "It happened again. Much worse this time. She lost a fortune, and Geoff Thornton wanted his money. I think it was the shock of the demand that brought on the heart attack that killed my father. She'd lost everything. There was no way we could repay him except…" "Except by letting him have the manor?" "Yes. And he didn't even want it to live in. He just let it go to rack and ruin. I think he just wanted to have his revenge on us for putting him in prison that time." But Alex wasn't listening. He was fighting the red haze of fury that was raging inside his thoughts, destroying his ability to think. The house that had been in the Browning family for centuries. Louise had always loved the manor. She had once said that she would do anything to keep it. Anything. Including claiming to be married to him? She hadn't thought him worthy to be with her before. But now that he was rich and could afford a house like this.… He felt sick — furious — used. "This help you need, querida…does it involve saving the ancestral family home?"
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It involved much more than that. She had had such dreams for the manor.… But she didn't dare to tell him the rest. "Yes it does," she said hesitantly. "And what do I get in return?" Louise swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet the darkness in his eyes. "Anything," she croaked. "Just ask. If I can manage it, I'll do it. What did you have in mind?" Alex's smile was cold as the sleet-laden wind that swirled around them. "Oh, I'm sure that I'll think of something." Chapter Four Alex drew his car to a halt outside the cottage and sat for a moment, scowling through the windshield at the other vehicle already parked outside Louise's cottage. Someone had got here before him, and he wasn't in the mood for polite conversation. There were questions he wanted answers to — and fast. And they weren't the sort of questions he wanted to discuss in front of anyone else. For a moment or two he considered turning around and driving away again, but then he changed his mind. He wanted this business over and done with as soon as possible. Done with? Face it, he told himself as he got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. Nothing about Louise had ever been "done with." He might have thought that he had been "over" her when he had left the village and gone to live in Spain, but he had been deluding himself to believe so. And coming back here had just proved it. In five minutes flat she had got under his skin as strongly as ever, and he had been forced to admit that nothing had died. Seeing her had simply revived all the hunger that he had felt when he had known her before. Revived it so strongly that he spent his nights enduring wild, erotic dreams about her, waking up hard and aching. And when he was with her he felt as if he had lost all the years in between, being once more reduced to the yearning, lustful state of the nineteen-year-old he had been when he had first met her. That was why he was here now. He had told himself that now that he knew exactly what Louise wanted from him, he would pack his bags and get out of there — fast. All she saw him as was a wealthy man who could restore her precious manor — and along with it the status of the Browning family — to its former glory. So was he going to let himself be used like that? No way! At least that was what he had told himself three days ago. He was getting on the next plane back to Spain and… And here he was at Louise's front door again.
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He had cursed his stupidity, told himself he was every sort of a fool. But he hadn't been able to get Louise Browning out of his mind in eight long years, and he might as well face the fact that he wasn't going to be able to do it now. The door was slightly ajar, and as he raised his hand to knock he heard the sound of raised voices from inside the cottage. "But I told you…" "I know what you told me, darling, but it just wasn't true, was it?" Louise's light tones and another, rougher, very masculine voice that he recognized instantly even after the length of time since he had heard it. The man he had once thought his friend, but who had proved himself to be the exact opposite. "Can't you give me another few days?" Louise looked up into the disturbingly cold face of the man before her, quailing inside as she saw the ruthless cruelty stamped on it. "You've had all the days you're getting! You pay by the end of the month or else." "But I told you —" Three days ago she had hoped…but since then she hadn't seen or heard from Alex, and the one tiny chance of a solution that she had had seemed to have shrivelled into ashes, like paper in a flame, disintegrating totally. "Oh, I know what you said, darling. You made some ridiculous claim about being married — to Alex Alcolar, of all people! He'd sort this all out, you said. And quite frankly, I don't believe a word of it. If Alex is going to come riding to your rescue like a knight on a white charger, then he'd be here by now." "You told him! You wrote that letter!" "I wrote — but nothing happened. If he's your husband, as you claim, then where the hell is he?" "Here." The single word came from behind them both, making Thornton spin round in shock, a violent curse escaping his lips. Louise couldn't even manage that much. Though her mouth opened, no sound came out. "Sorry I'm late, querida...." Alex moved swiftly into the room, bypassing Thornton with only a coolly disdainful glance. Coming to Louise's side, he stunned her even further by dropping a swift, totally unexpected kiss onto her vulnerable mouth. "I had a last-minute phone call just as I was leaving." If she had been capable of thinking of any reply, that kiss drove it totally from her mind. That and the use of that word, querida, along with the apparently genuine warmth in his tone made her head spin in disbelief. When he moved to her side and slid a strong arm around her waist, she welcomed its support with gratitude, her legs suddenly feeling weak as cotton wool beneath her.
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"So —" At last he turned and surveyed the man before him, slate-gray gaze cold and impenetrable. "Shall we get down to business?" "Alex…" Louise tried, but he silenced her with a smile and a swift shake of his head. "No, amada…" The softness of the words was threaded through with unyielding steel. A steel that was matched by the warning flash of those dark eyes, cautioning her not to overstep the invisible line he'd laid down. "We agreed. I would deal with this. You can leave it to me. What I would like you to do is to make me a coffee. I'm parched.…" The none-too-subtle push he gave her left her no option but to head for the kitchen as he wanted. Any attempt to disobey would only result in an undignified struggle; one Alex would undoubtedly win with ease. So she gave in — for now. She even made herself fill the kettle and switch it on. But the water boiled totally ignored as she struggled to listen to what was happening in the dining room. The thickness of the door and the space of the hall between them blocked the words, so that all she could hear was the indistinct murmur of the two different voices, Thornton's loud and blustering, Alex's smooth and totally impassive. Louise found that she was clenching her hands tight in an attack of nerves, nails digging into her palms. And then just as she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, she heard the front door open and close on a loud and obviously angry slam. The next moment a car roared into life and sped away down the lane. Alex or Thornton? A swift glance out of the window gave her the answer. Alex's car was still parked opposite the cottage. A rush of feeling swamped her, but even she couldn't have said whether it was relief or the opposite. Alex had got rid of Thornton, it seemed — but did that mean that she could say goodbye to all her problems, only to welcome in a whole new set of difficulties? The phrase "out of the frying pan and into the fire" sounded ominously inside her head as she forced her reluctant feet across the hallway to the dining room. Alex was standing by the big open fireplace, staring down into the flames, a brooding expression on his stunning face. But he swung round as he heard the door open and Louise hesitated on the threshold. "He's gone," he said, anticipating her question. "And he won't be back." "Can you be sure? How do you know —" "I know," Alex broke in curtly. "He's had all the money that he's getting out of me, and I made it clear that if he tried anything again there was plenty of information that I could hand over to the police — information that could put him back inside if I chose to reveal it. Yes, you can be sure he's gone." But that's wonderful!"
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Impulsively she took a couple of steps forward, her hands coming out — then froze as she looked into his handsome face and saw the blank, opaque look in his eyes. "He's gone," he repeated. "You're clear of him. Now you'll have to deal with me." Chapter Five "I'll have to deal with you?" Louise's heart jerked, seemed to stop, then lurched into a rough, unsteady beat. Nervously she swallowed hard. What had Thornton told him? Just how much had the other man let slip? Oh, why hadn't she defied Alex's command and stayed in the room? "What do I have to do?" Once more Alex's smile was the opposite of warm. "'Anything,'" he drawled. "'Just ask. If I can manage it, I'll do it.'" It took Louise a couple of shaken, bewildered moments to grasp just what he meant. And when she realized that he was quoting her own words back at her, reminding her of her promise to do anything she could to thank him if he got Thornton off her back, her head spun in something close to real panic. "You've — you've decided what you want." "I have." "And what is it?" It was too late now to regret her rash promise. Too late to acknowledge that she had blundered in without thinking, and so landed herself between the devil and the deep blue sea. She had promised, and Alex had delivered the goods, so now she had to do the same. "I want you to come back to Spain with me." "Spain?" He couldn't mean it! And even as she told herself that, she felt the sudden desperate rush of a longing for him to really want her to go to Spain with him. To be with him. As it had once been. But of course that was not what he wanted. "But I can't! I mean — I can't just walk out on things here. I have a job." "A job? As what?" "I'm a nurse. In — in the premature baby unit in the local hospital." And that was coming way too close to memories that were painful even after all this time.
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"A nurse? You?" Suddenly, unexpectedly, the disbelief in his expression changed to something new and very different. There was a speculative light in his eyes as his cool gray gaze swept over her, a hint of a sexy grin curling the corners of his sensual mouth. "I can just imagine you in the uniform…" Louise's sigh was a blend of exasperation, relief and a hint of teasing amusement. At least this was safer ground. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who are turned on by the thought of a nurse's uniform. We don't wear the starched hats or the…" Her voice faded, her throat drying, tension clutching at her heart. The atmosphere in the room had changed, moving from calm, even relaxed, to nerve-tightening apprehension in the space of a heartbeat. But it wasn't a fearful apprehension, more an anticipation. A need. A longing. "I wouldn't need a uniform to turn me on," Alex said, and the same sensations that were tugging at her nerves were there in his voice, in the darkening of his eyes that held hers transfixed. "You can do that all on your own. You always could. All I need is you." "Alex…" "Luisa, come to me…" And when he held out his hand it was as if he were a magician who had cast a spell over her. She couldn't resist, had no will to resist. She didn't want to resist. She wanted to be in his arms. It was the only place she had ever wanted to be. And as their warmth and strength closed around her it felt like coming home. And then it didn't. Because Alex bent his head and took her mouth in a kiss that seared her soul. And then it felt as if she was venturing out into new and dangerous territory. But she knew she could never turn back. Because this was what she wanted. What she had missed so much in all those long lonely years. "Luisa…querida…amada," Alex muttered roughly against her mouth, and the words made her tremble in need. She didn't care if he meant them or not. She only knew that they were part of the whirlwind of sensation that assailed her, and she needed them as she needed his kiss, the heat of his hands on her, smoothing, stroking, awakening the hunger that had always lain just below the surface whenever she was with him. She desperately wanted to feel the heat of his skin, and her fingers were clumsy with need as she tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt at his narrow waist. With a rough laugh low in his throat, Alex helped her, shrugging off the soft material and coming back to her with the heat and hardness of his torso crushed against her upper body. And somehow he seemed to know that she so longed for him to follow suit and rid her of her own clothing, but he didn't put her out of her misery at once. Instead he let those knowing, tormenting hands move everywhere. They slid under her sweater at the neckline, sending shudders of response right through her as his long fingers stroked the upper curves of her
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breasts, the sides. Then his hands moved away again to tangle tightly in her hair, pulling her face closer as he deepened and prolonged his kiss. "Alex…" It was moaning protest, a sound of impatience, and hearing it he soothed her gently. "No rush, querida; we have all day.…" But even as he spoke the words, Alex knew that he was deceiving himself. No rush! Who was he kidding? He might have wanted to take this slowly, but he knew it was impossible. From the moment that he had felt the softness of her body in his arms, the taste of her mouth on his and the scent of her skin in his nostrils, the hot and heavy pulse of desire through his body had taken over, pushing him to the edge of his control. He skimmed the pink sweater from her in one swift movement and captured the warm weight of her breasts in his hands, cupping them through the flimsy lace that was their only covering. His thumbs stroked the delicate crests, rousing them to urgent hunger. Louise moaned again, writhing against him, feeling the heat and hardness of his need for her against her hips. Her breath caught in her throat, her whole body stilling as his mouth touched her shoulders, moved down, down, to close over one tight nipple, warm and demanding, his tongue tracing wildly erotic circles over her aching flesh. "Amada…" his voice was raw and husky. "Tell me, your bedroom is…?" "Too far away. It would take too long. I want you here and now." Her tone was as rough as his. And as she spoke she was drawing him toward the open fire, drawing him down onto an old-fashioned rag rug before the hearth. On her knees before him, she tugged the fastening of his jeans free, slid the tight denim down the length of his legs and then made a raw, choking sound in her throat at the sight of his lean, muscled maleness in the firelight. "Alex…" she muttered, and reaching out she closed her fingers around his hardness. The soft touch shattered what little was left of his control. Pushing her back onto the rug, he came down on top of her, urgent hands lifting her skirt, tugging down the white lacy panties beneath it. The flickering, changing light of the fire played out an endless succession of patterns on the pale limbs splayed beneath him, gilding his chest and arms, shadowing his face as he slid between her thighs, entering her on one long, slow, sensual thrust. "I have waited so long for this," he muttered against her yearning mouth. "Too long. Far, far too long." "Too long…" she echoed on a broken sigh. But then as he moved inside her the sigh changed to a cry of delight, rising to a note of loss of control, and finally of total fulfilment as she lost herself completely in his arms. And as she arched in total abandonment against him, Alex too gasped out her name as felt himself shatter in the hot, silken warmth of her body. It was the start of a long, lingering, erotic afternoon. What they had begun by the heat of the blazing fire, they later continued, more slowly, in the deep, welcoming warmth of her bed. And as a result it was a long, long time before any sort of rational thought made its way back into Alex's mind.
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But when, in the early hours of the morning, a degree of memory returned, it was the last words that Thornton had flung at him on the way out the door that slid coldly into his mind. And made him wonder if he had made the worst mistake of his life. Chapter Six Alex’s home in Andalusia was quite the most beautiful place Louise had ever been to in her life. But it was also the loneliest. Even years ago when Alex had left the village and gone to take up his new life with his Spanish family, when she had found herself alone and pregnant, she had never felt as desolate as this. The closest she had come to this sense of desolation had been in those terrible days just after she had lost the baby — Alex's baby — and had felt that she would never know happiness again. She had come to Spain because she had to. She knew now that she had never stopped loving Alex. Would never stop loving him. That first time she'd had to let him go because she'd had no alternative. But this time he had asked her to come with him. And after that day when they had made love she had known that it would kill her to let him walk out of her life again. So she had annoyed the hospital by taking all the holidays she had available at the shortest possible notice. And she had come with him. But something had changed. Alex was no longer the man he had been. The ardent, passionate lover seemed to have vanished, and in his place was a cold, withdrawn man. A man who no longer even seemed to want her. A man who hadn't even kissed her or touched her in the three days since they had arrived here. He had made every effort to make sure that she was more than comfortable. Every need she had was met; every whim answered almost before she had a chance to express it. Every luxury that she might want, and some she had never even dreamed of, had been provided for her. But all that did was to emphasize how little Alex gave her emotionally And that lack of emotion was breaking her heart. "Luisa? What are you doing? My family will be here any minute." "I'm coming." She forced herself away from the window just as he pushed open the door and came into the room. And just the sight of him, his bronzed skin dark against the crisp white shirt, long legs sheathed in the black tailored trousers, was enough to make her heart jerk in uncontrolled response. She loved him so desperately, but she had no idea how he felt about her — if, in fact, he felt anything. "Is there something wrong?" "Wrong? No." The lie brought stinging tears to her eyes so that his face blurred before her. "Then why are you hiding yourself away up here?" His tone was so sharp that she knew he wouldn't easily be distracted, that she would have to offer him some plausible explanation or he would never let the subject drop.
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"All right then. If you must know, I'm nervous about meeting your father. He's given you so much.… No?" she questioned as Alex shook his dark head angrily. "But I assumed that your father…" "Well then you assumed wrong. My father gave me nothing but the start I wanted. The place at university. The position in his company where I could start out. Everything else I have I earned." That was so typically Alex that she couldn't hold back a small, soft smile. His pride would never have let him just have things given. Even though his father could well afford everything, he had to earn whatever came to him. "What have you told him — and your brothers and sister — about why I'm here?" What could he tell them? Alex wondered privately. How could he explain something that he didn't understand himself? If he knew why she had come with him then things would be so very different. Or would they? Wasn't the truth of the matter the fact that he didn't want to know the answer, in case it turned out to be the opposite of what he'd hoped for? "I've told them nothing," he answered honestly. "Nothing except that you are a visitor from England — someone I once knew." Someone I once knew. It had such a desolate sound to it. There seemed no hope of any future in those words. "Did — did you tell them about the manor? About —" "That's our secret. It's just between you and me." "I'll never be able to thank you, you know. If you hadn't come to my rescue, I don't know what I would have done." "Thornton certainly wanted more than I'd ever dreamed." Alex struggled to control his voice, keep the words even. "Why didn't you tell me how bad things had got?" "I — I didn't dare. To tell you the truth I couldn't believe myself. Melissa must have been signing IOUs day and night. I knew I could never pay it. I was really beginning to think that I was going to be forced to take the only way out that Thornton had offered me.…" She shuddered expressively at just the thought. "'The only way out.'" Alex pounced on the words like a tiger on its prey, bringing her up short in horror at the thought of what she had just inadvertently revealed. "And what way was that? Louise!" he added warningly when she backed away, shaking her head in refusal to speak. "Tell me!" "I — I can't.…"
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"No," he said grimly. "But Thornton did. He wanted you to become his mistress. To pay him with sex. I almost killed him.… I could still…" "Please — no — it's over." Over for her, Alex admitted to himself, but now he had to live with what this news meant for him. He had paid Louise's debts for her. He had got her precious manor back, and had made sure that Thornton would never trouble her again. And then he had taken her to bed. He had done it because he loved her. Because in all the years they had been apart she had never truly been out of his thoughts. He had tried to forget her, but the truth was that he had never been able to. And she had gone with him willingly. She had given herself to him without holding anything back. But had she only done so because she felt it was the way that she could thank him? That, as Geoff Thornton had insinuated, this was the way she had expected to pay for her freedom, and all that had changed was the man to whom she owed the debt of gratitude? His stomach heaved at the thought, and he couldn't bear to look into Louise's lovely face for fear of what he would see there. Instead he whirled away, planning on heading for the door. On getting out of here before he said something that would give away what he was feeling. But the suddenness of the movement created a whirling draft that caught some papers lying on the bed, lifting them and dropping them onto the floor. "Perdón. I —" Automatically he stooped to pick them up. "No!" Louise lunged forward, reaching desperately. But she was too late. Already those sharp gray eyes had scanned the first page. She saw him stop dead, flick a sudden, shocked glance in her direction, then go back and reread the page with a new and frightening intensity. And she knew it was too late. Chapter Seven Alex read the letter through once more then turned blazing eyes on Louise's ashen face. "The Gabrielle Alcolar Memorial…Louise, what the hell is this?" "It's —" Twice she tried to answer. Twice her voice failed. But she didn't really have to explain. Alex's swift, incisive brain had assessed the contents of the letter and come to the right conclusion. "Gabrielle Alcolar. Were you pregnant? Did you have a child? My child?" Louise could only nod miserably.
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"And you didn't deign to tell me? To let me know —" "She didn't live long enough for anyone to know her!" Louise burst in, tears flooding down her cheeks. "She was born too early, and she died too early as well. She wasn't even a day old.…" "Oh, Luisa!" Suddenly she was in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt. And he just held her. Held her and let her weep, his voice murmuring soft, comforting words in gentle Spanish, as if in the emotion of the moment all his English had deserted him. It was only when her sobs eased, when she drew in a deep, shuddering breath that he put one hand under her chin and lifted her face so that her hazel eyes met the dark intensity of his steely gaze, and shockingly saw the revealing glisten of his own tears in its depths. "And this memorial — the home — this is what you wanted the manor for." Sniffing inelegantly, Louise managed to nod agreement. "I wanted somewhere that mothers who had lost their babies this way could go. Somewhere they could have some time to recover, to convalesce. When Gabrielle died I spent hours just walking in the countryside around the manor, or reading in the library. I think it saved my life. I wanted others to have the chance, too." "I see." There was something in his voice that jarred. He was looking at the other document. The one that Louise knew was Gabrielle's birth certificate. "You do understand. It was so very important to me." "Oh, yeah." He couldn't drag his attention away from the words that were on the paper in front of him. Gabrielle Louise Browning. Born May 9. Gabrielle Browning. When his daughter's birth had been registered, she hadn't even been given his name. "I see now how important the manor was to you." She'd lost him somehow, Louise realized. The long, lean body was stiff with rejection, held rigidly away from her. Outside, the sound of a car pulling up alerted them to the fact that the first of their guests had arrived. Alex snatched at the excuse to escape. "My family is here. I'll go down and let them in. You take the time you need. Come down when you're ready." But then, just as she managed a smile of thanks for his thoughtfulness, he drove it right away again with his next words. "And don't worry about what they'll think of why you're here. I'll explain it's just for a short visit. Tell them that you're going home again tomorrow."
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It was not a suggestion but a command, Louise realized dazedly as the door swung shut behind him. He was telling her that she was going home again tomorrow. Dismissing her from his life — permanently, by the sound of it — and she didn't have the faintest idea why. *** As Louise watched Alex's family drive away from the house, she felt her stomach tighten into hard, painful knots. She had been nervous at the thought of them arriving. Now she wished that they were staying for much longer. Would Alex carry out his threat and send her home? Was he already wishing that she was gone? But the man who walked ahead of her back into the cool tiled hallway was silent and withdrawn. She was going to have to be the one who opened the topic. "I like your family," she managed hesitantly. "Your brothers are so like you. It's easy to see that you share the same father." Both Joaquin and Ramon Alcolar were every bit as tall, dark and stunning as their half brother. But neither of them stirred her senses or made her feel the way the man before her did. "And Mercedes…" For the first time, Alex's face softened at the mention of his half sister. "Mercedes is a chatterbox," he said. "She never knows when to shut up." "It makes her easy to get on with." She prayed that the uneasiness in her mind didn't show in her voice. Mercedes had spent some time alone with her, and what Alex's sister had told her had unsettled her terribly. She had also found it impossible to believe. "So…should I start packing? It was part question, part challenge. But Alex didn't respond to either. "If I'm to leave tomorrow, I should.… But, Alex, I don't want to go!" That got a reaction from him. He had been heading into the kitchen, but now he whirled round. And something in his face, some shaken look in his eyes just before he managed to mask them again told her that her comment had hit home. But he covered his mistake quickly. "Why not?" he asked coolly. Not coolly enough, Louise decided. He had definitely been shaken. And that, combined with what Mercedes had said, gave her a new determination. She was not about to be dismissed without at least a fight. "I don't think I'm prepared to say — at least, not yet. Not until you've answered a question for me." It was there again. A tiny flash of wariness that, sensitive to everything about him, she caught where someone else might not.
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"Louise, is this important?" "Yes. I think so. It could be the most important thing I'll ever ask." She really had his attention now. Those slate-colored eyes were fixed intently on her face, watching her closely. "Then ask," he said huskily. Chapter Eight Louise licked her painfully dry lips, wondering where to start. Ask, Alex had said, giving her the chance she so desperately wanted. But now she was terrified that she would make a total mess of things if she didn't tread very carefully. "Mercedes said — she said that you once told her something.… She was teasing you, saying it was time you got married, and you told her that you'd already met the one woman who could ever be your wife." "Like I said, Mercedes talks too much." "But was she telling the truth?" Her answer was there in his face. He didn't need to speak a word. Louise's heart gave a little kick of excitement but she fought to keep calm. She wasn't out of the woods yet. "That's what I told her." Alex was clearly hedging his bets, too. "And the woman? Who were you talking about?" But she'd pushed him too far. His face changed, his jaw setting hard, and he shook his dark head violently. "No. No more questions. It's my turn for some answers." "Okay, ask away." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. "When Gabrielle — when our daughter was born — why...?" "I didn't register her birth." She anticipated the question that was burning in his mind and answered without it needing to be asked. "I didn't do it. I was too distressed to do anything. My father was the one who put the name Browning on the certificate." "But you were the one who called her Gabrielle Alcolar on the documents for the memorial home?" He took her silence for the assent it was. "Why? Because I was no longer plain Alex Anderson? No longer the housekeeper's son, but a member of the powerful Alcolar family? Because I could afford to buy —"
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"No! Oh, Alex, is that what you thought? Because if it was, then you couldn't have been more wrong. Your money — your position now — doesn't mean a thing to me." "No?" The cynicism in his eyes stabbed at her like a knife. "No! I always wanted Gabrielle to have her real name — your name. You were her father; she was your child. That was what mattered. If you'd read the letter properly — all the details — you'd have seen that the home was always going to have your name right from the start. Whether you helped me or not." "So the manor…" "The manor is only a place. I wanted it to be a memorial to Gabrielle — to our child. But I wanted it to be named for you too. Because…" No. She didn't dare to admit that she loved him. Not yet. He still looked too wary, too unsure. She had to wipe away the scepticism, convince him somehow. But how? When inspiration struck suddenly, it was impossible to suppress a grin of pure delight. Impulsively she held out her hand. "Alex, come with me." Alex eyed her suspiciously, wondering just what had put that glow into her face. "What are you up to?" "Please, trust me." When she turned those wide hazel eyes on him like that, and put the pleading note into her voice, then he would go with her anywhere. Do anything she asked. He couldn't stop himself. And so he put his hand into hers and felt her soft fingers close around his. She led him up the stairs and into a bedroom. His bedroom, not the separate single room where he had insisted that she sleep since their arrival at the house. Once there, she released him, left him standing in the middle of the room while she perched on the end of the big double bed. "Louise, what —" "No talking." She held up a hand to silence him. "Just do as I say. Take your jacket off." For a second she thought he was going to refuse. But then suddenly he shrugged his broad shoulders, slid off the jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "And your shirt."
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He frowned his confusion, but surprisingly he obeyed her without a word. "Now what, señorita?" Alex asked dryly, his attention totally focussed on her. "Don't tell me…" Strong brown hands gestured, indicating the black leather belt at his waist. "That's right." The tightness in Louise's throat made her voice croak embarrassingly. She expected rebellion, but surprisingly he obeyed her without a word. Perhaps something in her face had given her away. Perhaps he had sensed just how much this meant to her. With the last garment of all, her nerve failed her. But Alex took the situation right out of her hands, stripping off the shorts to stand proud and unembarrassed in his nakedness before her. "Isn't it about time you told me what all this is about, querida?" Her heart thudding wildly, Louise got up from the bed and walked to stand beside him. With a hand that shook noticeably she reached out and touched him softly on the cheek, looking deep into his darkened eyes. "Now you're what I want," she said clearly, confidently. "Now you're all I want — everything I want." "Not the money…?" Where her voice had gained a new strength, Alex seemed to have lost some of his pride, his selfpossession. "Or the —" "Not the money. Never the money. Not the manor or the name or anything…but you." Louise assured him. "You're what I need. Just you, nothing more. Just this one special man…" "And you're all the woman I need. The only woman I want," he told her. And to Louise, the words sounded the most wonderful she had ever heard in her life. "Then will you answer my question?" She didn't need to say which question. He knew exactly what she meant. "Yes," he said, his voice deep and husky with emotion. "Yes, you were the one I told Mercedes about. Yes you are the woman I love. The only woman I would ever want by my side. So please, amada, please tell me that you'll marry me and be my wife — for real, this time." "Oh, Alex, there isn't anything I'd love more in the whole world. Oh, yes…" The words were silenced by his kiss. A kiss that promised the world and a glorious future together. "Wife for real," Louise echoed softly when he finally let her breathe again. "Could anything be more perfect?" "Just one thing," Alex told her, his eyes gleaming silver with a blend of delight and need. "But you have rather too many clothes on for what I have in mind." "I do, don't I?" Louise teased, joy lifting her voice, putting a bubble of laughter into it. "Perhaps you'd like to help me with that?"
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Whirlwind Wedding by Lillian Darcy You are cordially invited to the wedding of Melinda Duncan and Ryan Courcy. Serving as bridesmaid, and threatening to steal the spotlight away from the bride, is Melinda's sister, Shallis, the reigning Miss Tennessee. Also attending are the groom's parents, who haven't been in the same room in eleven years. We do hope you'll be able to attend, despite the short notice. The invitations couldn't have been sent sooner: the bride and groom only met seven weeks ago! And, please, be on the lookout for any uninvited wedding guests that threaten to tear the couple apart before they even say their "I dos"….
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One "Star Moment, honey, don't forget. This is a huge Star Moment for you." "It's okay, Mom, I get that." And, thanks, I really needed you to make me more of a gibbering nervous wreck than I already was. "Just let me smooth the back of your dress." "My dress is fine," Melinda answered. "Go sit in the church." "And your tiara..." "Will — you — please — go — sit — in — the — church!" "Ahh, sweetie." Sunny Duncan's eyes misted. "You look just beautiful!" "Sunny, will you darn well do what your daughter is asking you to do?" Bob Duncan growled. "She's going to pass out from pure terror any second." He grabbed Melinda's trembling arm and glared at his wife, who nodded, smiled and scuttled into the cool dimness of the church on her three-inch peacock blue heels. Melinda took a deep breath. If this was bridal nerves, then she had a near-fatal case. She hadn't expected to. All those years when she'd dreamed of marrying Jared Starke, had planned on marrying him, down to the very last detail, bridal jitters had never figured in the picture. Now, she was about to marry Ryan Courcy, a man she'd known for just a few short weeks, and she felt more like she was lined up on a hospital gurney waiting for major surgery. In real life, she'd never been a great success at the big occasions — the Star Moments — her mother loved "Ready?" her father asked. "Give me another five seconds." Her sister, Shallis, younger by five years and looking stunning this afternoon in ice blue satin instructed her, "Drop your shoulders, Linnie. Lift your chin." As this year's reigning Miss Tennessee, Shallis was a lot more comfortable in the spotlight. Melinda had tried to be, during her own less than successful beauty pageant years, but — but — "Ryan's waiting for you," Shallis added softly. "Yes. He is. Okay. Let's do this. Dad?" She held his arm more tightly.
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The aisle of the church hadn't seemed so long since Melinda had first learned to walk, twenty-five years ago. As the organ groaned into life, Ryan turned to gaze at her down the length of worn red carpet. He was miles away, and he looked so different today — intimidating in his dark suit, his face set and steady. He hadn't yet smiled at her. Melinda's heart beat faster. Friends and relatives crammed the church. Dozens of pairs of eyes locked on her face. Sentimental females sniffed into their handkerchiefs. Fidgety males cleared their throats. A little Courcy cousin said loudly, "I wanna go home!" Yeah, little guy, can I come with you? How had a flat tire on a lonely, rain-sodden farm road, seven weeks ago, led to this? Melinda had almost gotten the tire changed successfully by the time Ryan had pulled over to offer his help. She should have told him she was fine and waved him on, out of her life. Instead, one look at those piercing blue eyes, those strong shoulders, those locks of dark hair getting rapidly soaked with rain, and she'd felt as if her own personal prince had ridden up on his gallant white charger to rescue her. She'd let him change the tire. She'd let him feed her hot coffee from a flask and sour-cream-and-onion potato chips from a packet. She'd found out that he was a professional horse breeder and trainer who hoped to have his own stud farm one day, and had told him that she was a substitute teacher, returning from a teacher's day from Hell, at a tiny country school. She'd even let him put his rain jacket around her shoulders while they'd sat together in the cozy front seat of his SUV. You're soaked," he'd said, "in that thin dress." "I can't take your jacket." "Take my phone number, too, then you can call me so I can arrange to get the jacket back." He'd had a slow, measured and thoughtful way of speaking that she'd liked at once, but there was nothing slow or measured in the way he'd courted her. And she'd given him the right encouragement, phoning about the jacket the very next day. "I want to marry you," he'd said, on their fourth date. "Ryan —!" "I'm not asking you. Not yet." He'd grinned, and her stomach had dropped like an elevator filled with wild butterflies, around fifty floors. She hadn't known it was possible to fall for a man this fast and this hard, to feel this right and this confident. Almost as confident as he was. "I'm just giving you fair warning of my intentions," he'd said. Two weeks warning, in fact. Swept off her feet by his quiet certainty, by the way he talked about their future, by his effect on her senses, by the promise of the home and family she'd always wanted, she'd said yes without hesitation.... "I said I wanna go home!" the little Courcy cousin yelled. A woman whispered at him, pulled him up onto her hip and clattered out of the church through a side door. Rattled by the incident — as if she needed another reason to get rattled! — Melinda tripped on the floorlength front of her silver-white satin gown. She heard a ripping sound. Her father said, "Whoa, honey!" and the congregation gave a collective gasp.
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Ryan frowned and took a step forward. Without turning around, Shallis hissed at Melinda, "It's okay. It's just the tulle. The underskirt. I can tell by the sound of it. Don't catch your toe in the tear." I'll try." What made me think I could do this? Ryan kept on frowning. He didn't take his eyes from her face. Melinda tried to gain some support from the steadiness of his regard, but she couldn't. She was too busy working out how to not catch that toe on what she feared must be a gaping tear. The church aisle stretched out a further six miles, but she reached Ryan at last. She wanted a word from him, a reassurance, but nothing came. He took her hands, but they were so shaky and damp that he let them go again almost at once, and the frown on his face etched itself deeper into his high forehead. He ran his fingers down her bare arm, but she hardly felt it. A commotion came from the far end of the aisle at that moment. Fast, confident footsteps. Murmurs and exclamations. And then a voice. "Linnie? Linnie, am I too late?" A minute ago, the aisle had been twelve miles long. Now it shrank to a few yards. Melinda knew that voice, and when she turned, she knew the rangy silhouette and the handsome face, lit from an angle by rays of sunshine filtering through stained glass and falling on a sleek shock of sun-blond hair. "Thank heaven I'm not too late," Jared Starke said. Ignoring Ryan, Shallis, the best man, the minister and the whole congregation, he pulled Melinda into his arms and held her there. "You can't marry him, Melinda Duncan. I know this is my fault. I'm an idiot. I always thought I had plenty of time, through law school and beyond. But you know it, don't you? You've always known it. You have to marry me!" Chapter Two A hot wave of confusion flooded Melinda's already overheated body as she stared at Jared, the man who'd just interrupted her wedding. "Jared... Marry you?" She echoed his words on a husky squeak. "That's what I said." He smiled, his lips parted slightly. She remembered that smile. She remembered those lips — on hers, searching for her innocent teenage response, seeking to inflame it to the point of no return. He'd succeeded, too. Over Jared's shoulder, Ryan — her fiancé and her groom — said nothing. Why didn't he speak? If ever there was a time for one of her mom's favorite Star Moments, this should be it. Ryan should act. Decisively. The way he'd acted the first day they met. But he didn't. He just watched her, waiting, and she couldn't read his face. Jared Starke held the focus of the entire congregation as though a fragile flower was cupped in his hand, and he knew it. "You know this, Melinda," he told her. With his arms still wrapped around her, lazy, loose and oh-soconfident, his golden-brown eyes were just inches from her face. "You know what we always had together. Since high school. I was crazy to take it for granted, to send back the ring you gave me five years ago."
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A ring? Ryan thought. His whole body felt frozen in place by the sight of his bride's face. What was she thinking? How did she feel? Melinda had told him about Jared Starke — how they'd dated in high school and college. But she hadn't told him that she'd given Jared a ring, nor that he'd eventually sent it back. She had spoken of Jared as if five years ago was half a lifetime ago, and as if they'd drifted apart and he'd never been truly important. But now... "When I heard you were getting married today..." Jared's words trailed off. He swallowed, shook his head. Melinda's eyes were as wide as a child's. She should be angry, and she shouldn't hesitate. She should sting the guy's cheek with the flat of her hand and order him out of her life. But she didn't. Instead, she listened, and stayed in his arms. The entire congregation held its breath, waiting for the most scandalous wedding ceremony in Hyattville in a decade. Ryan knew that his cousin Lorene was here. If Melinda Duncan ran off with Jared Starke, leaving her fiancé at the altar, Lorene would turn the story into a gossip's tour de force that she'd retell for years. It would take courage for Melinda to walk out of her wedding and step into a minefield like that. Courage, or the heart-stopping certainty that she loved Jared after all and that she didn't love Ryan. "Jared..." Melinda sighed again. *** She looked so beautiful today. Her golden brown hair was piled on her head in gleaming tendrils and coils. Her wide-set gray eyes shone. Her satin dress hid the long, tanned legs Ryan loved but shaped itself closely over her upper body, showing the tuck of her waist and the rounded swell of her breasts. For the first time in his life, Ryan understood how his father must have felt when his mother had cheated. For the first time, he felt for himself the rip of jealousy and suspicion in his gut, like the turn of a rusty knife, and he didn't like it. Mom was here today. He'd glimpsed her earlier, although they hadn't yet had a chance to speak. His parents hadn't been under the same roof together in more than eleven years — not since Ryan's twenty-first birthday party. Mom had taken a cab ride out of her twenty-two-year marriage that night. She'd checked into a nearby hotel and only returned to her marital home to collect her things. She lived four hundred miles from Hyattville now and, though Ryan saw her occasionally and spoke to her by phone, he couldn't claim they were close. If Melinda hadn't insisted, he would have gone with what Dad wanted and left Belle Courcy off the invitation list. *** "Sorry, buddy." Jared released Melinda at last, grinned crookedly at Ryan and spread his hands. Melinda took a shaky breath and tried to reorientate the universe, as her former sweetheart turned to the man she was about to marry. "Ryan, isn't it?" Jared said. "Ryan Courcy," he replied on a growl. "That's right." "Nothing personal. No hard feelings. But this woman belongs to me."
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Melinda's frozen muscles knotted into action at last. "No! No, Jared, you're wrong. I don't!" "Linnie —" "Please —" she sucked in another jerky lungful of air "— leave. Now. I'm here to marry Ryan. You shouldn't have done this." The golden gleam of light in Jared's eyes grew brighter. "I flew in from Chicago twenty minutes ago, and had the cab driver scream around every bend to make it here in time," he said. "I would have come from the ends of the earth if I'd had to. What more do I have to do? Should I throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here?" "N-no. You should just leave. I'm going to marry Ryan." She reached her hand out to her groom, the way she might have gripped a fence in a hurricane. But who or what was the hurricane here? Was it Jared? Or was it her own past? Her seventeen-year-old certainty that Jared Starke was The One? She'd been certain of Jared for four years. She'd known Ryan for just seven weeks, and she'd agreed to marry him a month ago. Yes, but she was twenty-six now, not seventeen. She knew so much more about what she wanted and what she felt. Certainty settled over her, after the terrifying moments of doubt, like some warm, magical blanket. She loved Ryan. She wanted to marry Ryan. Why hadn't she told Jared so right away? No, why hadn't she ignored Jared altogether and told Ryan himself? With words in his ear and a whisper of touch against his square jaw, a press of his arm. Why had she stood here for so long? Because she'd had doubts. No use pretending. She had. She'd weighed up the four years against the seven weeks. She'd remembered all those months of crying into her pillow over Jared every night, hoping he'd come back to her, hoping for a dramatic Star Moment like the one he'd just delivered. For a crucial few minutes, she'd wondered if marrying Ryan was a mistake. Jared thought he'd won. Even now, as he backed off and charmed his way into a seat in the front row, he still acted like the man who'd won. Melinda didn't like it one bit. What did he know that she didn't? Ryan's hand rested in hers, cool and solid and dry. She pivoted the three-quarter turn to face him. Too shaken up to smile, she murmured, "Can we just say our vows? Just do it?" He nodded slowly, and at last the ceremony began. For Melinda, it passed in a blur, and when they'd exchanged their wedding bands, she felt as if a huge gate had just clanged shut behind her — a gate that didn't imprison her, but made her safe. She was married to Ryan, and that was all she wanted. "You may kiss the bride," said Reverend Gray. A thrill ran through her, and as Ryan leaned forward, she smiled up at him at last. But the touch of his lips on hers was stiff and brief, not filled with its usual sweet seduction.
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"Ryan?" she whispered, looking up at him. His blue eyes glittered with tangled emotions and his mouth was hard. "We'll carry it through for today," he muttered. "But tomorrow...Monday at the latest...we should talk to a lawyer." "A lawyer?" "About what's required for an annulment…or a divorce." Chapter Three Bubbles danced through the air as Melinda and Ryan came out of the church as newlyweds, hand in hand. Shallis blew a long string of them from the wedding-cake-shaped plastic bottle she held. They gleamed with rainbow colors in the June sunshine before they burst in a spray of tiny droplets. Shallis laughed, and several cameras clicked, capturing Hyattville's biggest celebrity enjoying her sister's wedding day. Melinda wasn't sorry to see the focus shift away from herself and her new husband. Even Jared Starke, she saw, had his eyes trained on Shallis's honey-gold hair and huge Miss Tennessee smile. You hardly would have guessed, at this moment, that Jared had tried and failed to derail the wedding just forty minutes earlier. "Hold her, Ryan. Heads close together," said the photographer they'd hired to capture their day on film. His heavy professional camera clicked. Ryan did as he was told, and Melinda leaned against his strong body, knowing that she risked falling without his support. Her legs had no strength right now. She felt so much better in his arms, enveloped in his familiar warmth, his unique, musky scent, the aura of rock-solid masculinity that he gave off. "I don't want an annulment or a divorce, Ryan," she told him. Her voice came out thin and shaky — inaudible, she hoped, over the happy noise of the wedding guests. Ryan didn't reply. He wasn't a flamboyant, emotive speaker like Jared. He used words sparingly, carefully, and she'd always had the confidence that if he said something, he meant it. Just now, he'd talked about divorce. If he'd meant that... Her stomach lurched and she felt ill. If she lost Ryan because a figure from her past had turned up at the most dramatic possible point... Mom was wrong about Star Moments. Life wasn't about things like that. Love wasn't. It went so much deeper. "Hey, you two," the photographer said. "Stop looking as if someone died. You've gotten through the hard part. You can have fun now. Look down at her, Ryan. Melinda, lift your face. Better! That's nice! Can you hold that?" "You weren't sure," Ryan muttered. "You stood there. It felt like an hour. And you weren't sure. I could see it in your face." She could tell he was wounded, and that he was angry, and she understood both emotions. During that crucial window of time, with everybody looking on, she'd had doubts. She'd let them show — to Ryan, to Jared, to the whole congregation — and she somehow knew that Ryan wouldn't want a glib insistence that her doubts had disappeared. When he weighed his own words so carefully, a hasty, effusive speech from her now would only make things worse. But what else could she do? How could she prove he was wrong?
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She'd never seen him angry like this, but she couldn't blame him for it. Only the fact that she'd gone through with the ceremony in the end had saved him from complete humiliation and hurt. Is that why he thinks I did it? Just to save us both from the scandal? "Ryan. My wonderful son." An attractive older woman with a strong face and a husky voice like Lauren Bacall's came up to him and touched him on the arm. A cream-and-gold trouser-suit showed a figure that had filled out by just a few pounds since her youth, and her hair was its natural silver-gray. "Mom," Ryan said. "I didn't get a chance to talk to you before." "I planned to get in last night, but I got so tired from driving on my own, I had to check into a motel. Melinda, honey, this is such a wonderful gift for me. I wasn't sure I'd ever see Ryan marry." Belle Courcy held Melinda in a hug and kissed her cheek. Melinda hugged her in return, wondering if the double meaning to her new mother-in-law's words was intended. Belle hadn't known if Ryan would marry? Or she hadn't known if she would be there to see it? Ryan hadn't talked to her in any detail about his parents' split, or the reasons behind it, but she knew he sided mainly with his dad. After knowing Jack Courcy for just a few weeks, Melinda wasn't yet at ease with her new father-in-law. She sensed a restless bitterness in him, which his son's loyalty and support didn't appear to assuage. "It's so great to meet you," she told Belle. "We'll talk later. I know you have to focus on the photos right now." "No, don't move away, Mrs. Courcy," the photographer said. "Let's have the wedding party all together, and the bride's and groom's parents." Where was Mom? Oh, with Shallis, tidying her hair. Standing near them, Dad looked tetchy and impatient, the way he always did when Mom fussed over makeup and hair and clothes. Her parents had been married for nearly thirty years, but were they really happy together? Melinda didn't know. She felt Ryan's grip on her hand tighten, and squeezed him back. For the moment, the tension between them had eased. She laid her head on his shoulder and inhaled the mingled scents of skin and cloth and soap and shaving cream from his tanned neck. Her pulses throbbed and her bones began to melt. This was their wedding day. Did she really have to prove that she'd married him for love? "Mom," he said to Belle. "The photographer's going to want you and Dad standing together." Melinda heard a note of warning in his voice. "You didn't bring a guest, did you? A man?" Belle's face stilled. "I came alone, Ryan," she said quietly. "I told you that. I'll have no problem standing with your father. He's the one you need to ask." Ryan nodded. He let go of Melinda and walked away as if he'd forgotten her, heading toward the edge of the milling group of guests, where his father stood. Even from this distance, Melinda understood the outcome of the short, tense conversation. Divorced for nine years and separated for two years before that, Jack Courcy still wasn't prepared to stand beside the mother of his son at his son's wedding. Coming back to Melinda, Ryan said low in her ear, "We're going to have to mix up the couples for this. Would Shallis stand with Dad, while Mom partners Tom?" "Does Tom like older women?" Melinda teased, trying to squeeze some lightness back into the atmosphere, trying to put a smile on Ryan's face. When it didn't work, her heart sank.
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"Tom understands the situation," Ryan told her, his jaw jutting square and hard. He'd been close friends with his best man since grade school. "Maybe I should ask him about it then," she answered. "Because I don't." Ryan looked at her and his face softened suddenly. "Ah, Linnie," he said, "I know you don't. I'm sorry. That's wrong, isn't it? We've had so much to plan. And we've been so happy planning it. I didn't want to cast a shadow. Their divorce was about as bad as it gets. Dad will never get over it, nor forgive my mom." "Forgive her?" "She cheated. Dad's not the easiest man to live with. Maybe she felt that gave her enough of a reason. But she cheated on him for years, flirted with her lovers in plain sight, and when she left, it was to follow a married man." Chapter Four "At last, we get a chance to talk!" Shallis breathed out a whooshing sigh. "We've been standing next to each other, on and off, for nearly an hour," Melinda answered, amused. She was used to her younger sister's dramatics. They helped, while her mind still reeled with concerns she'd never expected to have on her wedding day — concerns like Jared Starke showing up at the altar, demanding she run off with him instead of marrying Ryan, and Ryan's revelation, an hour ago, that his mother's infidelity had blown his parents' marriage apart. Just from the way he'd spoken, she could tell how much this event had shaped him. "We've talked plenty," she added to Shallis. "You know what I mean. A-l-o-n-e," she spelled out. The afternoon shadows had begun to stretch out from the trees in Hyattville's prettiest park. The wedding guests would be enjoying cocktail hour at the nearby Grand Regency Hotel. The bridal couple, maid of honor and best man, however, had spent this time caught in the camera lens, against a backdrop of roses in bloom, vistas of trees and the splashing Memorial Fountain. Now, Tom and Ryan helped the photographer carry his equipment to his vehicle, leaving Melinda and Shallis to trail behind in their long gowns, toward the waiting limo. "It was so dramatic, Linnie!" Shallis said. "Jared storming in like that." "He didn't storm. It wasn't dramatic. It was horrible." "For a minute, I thought you were going to go with him. I could see him sweeping you up in his arms and carrying you off." "Don't, Shallis." "Oh my gosh!" Shallis squeaked. "Are you regretting that you didn't do it? You thought about it. I could see it in the way you hesitated and looked at Jared then looked at Ryan. And then you —" "It was the worst mistake of my life. The worst. I'm afraid I'll pay for it, at some hidden level, forever." "Marrying Ryan? The worst mistake?"
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"No! My Lord, no, Shallis! Listening to Jared. Even for a second." "Linnie, sweet heaven, don't cry!" "It's worth crying over, isn't it?" Frantically, she scraped at the heavy skirt of her dress, in search of the "something borrowed" lace handkerchief she'd tucked into the "something blue" garter on her thigh. Looking down, she saw the tear in the tulle underskirt from when she'd tripped in the church. Tiny. Inconsequential. "Isn't the worst mistake of my life worth crying about?" She dabbed at her eyes. "No, I mean because of your makeup. What mascara did you use? I sincerely hope it's waterproof!" "Oh, Shallis!" Melinda had to laugh, and she was still laughing — and crying, too — when they reached the limo. Ryan and Tom were waiting for them. "I made her cry, Ryan," Shallis announced. "Now I'm handing her back to you." Ryan stood close and brushed a strand of hair away from Melinda's face, while Tom and Shallis climbed into the back of the limo. "You okay?" he asked softly. "Do I have to yell at your sister?" "I'm okay." As long as you're touching me, as long as you're looking at me like this, I'm okay. But I'm not kidding myself that we've gotten through this, yet. As if he'd read her thoughts, Ryan told her, "This has to be about what you want, Linnie. I love you. You know that. But maybe I rushed us both into this. And I'm not going to live through a marriage where you're never sure you did the right thing. I've seen the anguish my father suffered. I'm not putting myself through that. I'm not waiting day after day for the ax to fall. If you have doubts, I need us to cut out of each other's lives now. This weekend, not later." "It's not going to be enough, is it, for me just to say it? To say that I don't have doubts, and that I love you?" "If it was that simple, you wouldn't have given Jared a second glance. You have things to work out, Linnie, about why you reacted the way you did." "And don't you, too?" She was angry. "I'm here. I chose you. I married you. Shouldn't you trust what that means? Do you honestly think I would have done it if —" "A wedding is a pretty powerful engine when it gets up to full speed. Takes courage to stop it in its tracks." "You think that's why I went through with it? Because I didn't have the courage to hurt you in front of all those people?" "Think about it. That's all I'm asking." "And I am thinking about it. I'm not sure who comes out worse in your scenario. Me, for lack of courage, or you, because you apparently think that I don't think you're strong enough to take public rejection. I don't doubt your strength, Ryan." They glared at each other, and a rush of need and desire hit both of them at the same time, with the force of a loaded truck.
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"Melinda..." Ryan's voice went hoarse. "Hell, when you look at me that way, I can't think straight. I can't even see straight. Who was I kidding that we should have held back on this marriage and waited longer? I want to make love to you so bad. I want to fall asleep in your arms every night and wake up beside you every morning, and I don't want to wait another hour." "I know. I know." She reached for him, tear-blinded, and laced her fingers against the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. If Tom and Shallis were getting impatient, it didn't matter. If they were hitting the limo's minibar and watching the satellite TV, all the better. The first touch of Ryan's lips came with the touch of his hands at her waist. He spread his fingers across the slippery satin then brought them higher, cupping her breasts while his mouth ravished hers. *** The wide-set straps of Melinda's dress slipped from her shoulders, dragging her strapless bra lower, and when Ryan opened his eyes to look at his beautiful bride and saw those tender mounds threatening to spill, he brought his mouth down and kissed the crescents of each darkened areola until she gasped and arched and moaned. Blood charged through his body, heaviness filled his groin and his hands gentled and softened, the way they gentled on a high-strung thoroughbred filly. Linnie, his wife, was the most precious being in the world. With a big wedding to put together in a month, they hadn't had enough opportunities for this. Making love together was spectacular, explosive...and rare. Ryan ached for it as he'd been aching since the day they'd met and he'd first been captivated by the combination of strength and vulnerability that he loved in Linnie. She had looked like a half-drowned animal, but she'd almost finished changing that tire, and he'd wanted to kiss her rain-slicked lips within five minutes of pulling over to offer his help. Raising his head from her breasts, he found her mouth again. Linnie's mouth, so perfect, so responsive, so warm. But was it fully his? How would he know? Dad had believed that Mom was his for years, and he'd been wrong. Ah, hell, that didn't count right now. Only Linnie counted. Only the two of them. "If I could make love to you right now, sweetheart..." he whispered, branding his mouth on her lips, her closed eyes, her hair. "Would it solve anything, Ryan?" She eased away from him, looked into his face. "Isn't that where we made our big mistake? We made love, and we planned our wedding, but there was a whole lot of other stuff we never talked about and never gave ourselves the chance to work out. How much will we have to pay for doing that?" "I don't know, Linnie." Chapter Five "How did you get this venue at such short notice?" Melinda flinched at Jared's voice beside her. She turned and found him leaning on the bar. He must have been watching her circuit the huge, noisy ballroom, at first with Ryan and then alone, as they took care to speak to as many of the two hundred guests as possible before the appetizers arrived. She hadn't noticed him, and she'd never expected him to show his face here. "There was a cancellation," she answered. "Oh, so weddings do get cancelled sometimes, huh?" The innocence of the question only made her bristle more.
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"Why are you still here?" she demanded. "I talked to Luisa, at the church. Remember Luisa?" "Since she's one of my oldest friends, yes!" "She said her boyfriend couldn't make it, so there was a spare place setting. Seemed a pity for it to go to waste." "What was today about for you? What was that stunt you pulled during our ceremony all about, Jared Starke?" "It was about you, of course," Jared said. "About us." "Give me a break!" She could see Ryan on the far side of the room. His grandmother Courcy had gotten hold of him. She was a wonderful woman, Melinda had heard, but she could talk and talk and talk. Melinda saw Ryan's glance arrow to his left and find her in seconds. He raised his hand in a tiny wave and shot her a smile, which soon drained into a watchful expression when he saw that she was with Jared. "It wasn't about us at all," she told her one-time sweetheart angrily. "It was about wanting to win. That's all you care about, isn't it? It took me years to see it and, heaven help me, today for a few minutes I almost forgot, but you like to win, Jared, and if you can't do it by coming out on top in an honest contest, you'll do it by crippling the rest of the field. I'm not going to let you destroy my marriage!" He didn't get a chance to answer, or even react. An ice blue satin whirlwind descended on him at that moment, squealing and stretching out a pair of graceful arms. "I don't believe you haven't said hi to me yet, Jared Starke!" Shallis said. "Is it possible you don't even recognize little Shallis Duncan now that she's all grown up?" She snuggled into his arms with a saucy shimmy of her shoulders. "I'd be pretty slow on the uptake if I didn't recognize the bride's beautiful sister," Jared answered. "Especially when I've seen her in the newspapers with a sash and a crown, calling herself Miss Tennessee." "Oh, that?" Shallis slapped him playfully on the shoulder and the slap turned into a caress on his neck. "That's not important. Tell me about what you've been doing with your life." She gazed up into his eyes, practically batting her lashes, and neither she nor Jared seemed to notice when Melinda eased away to go meet Ryan, who was coming toward her. "We should sit," Ryan said. "The waiters want to serve the bridal table first. Everything okay?" Chapter Six Ryan hardly heard the swell and roll of the music, couldn't remember more than a couple of the classic love songs he and Melinda had chosen for the band to play in a medley as their bridal waltz. He had Linnie in his arms, and that was all that mattered. "Oh, Ryan..." She sighed against him as they danced, pillowed her head on his shoulder, reached up to stroke his neck and pulled his head down to kiss his lips. "Linnie. Sweet Linnie." "I love you."
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"I can't even say it. My heart is bursting." The tempo of the music shifted and slowed, and he held her more tightly, feeling the press of her breasts against his body, holding her hips through the slippery fabric of her dress. He could feel how nervous she was. She'd told him she hated moments like this. All eyes upon her, any clumsiness on public display. But they hadn't known each other long enough for him to have experienced her reaction in person, up close, before today. He had nothing to compare it with. Was all of it nerves and her dislike of the spotlight? Or was some of it about Jared? Ryan couldn't believe the guy was still hanging around. He'd been tempted to co-opt his best man and each of them grab one of Jared's arms to throw him bodily from the Grand Regency Hotel lobby, into the street. Why hadn't he? Tom would have backed him up. Alternatively, the hotel had security staff. He could have called on them. Jared was an uninvited guest. But Ryan hadn't acted, and Jared was still here. Why? Oh, he knew. In his heart, he did. want to watch Melinda and Jared when they're together. He wanted to see how they behaved, see if they touched. Hell, he hated seeing this motivation in himself. It reminded him too much of his dad. He hadn't become aware of the way his father watched his mother until his late teens, and even then, he hadn't understood it. He hadn't understood until after Mom had left and Dad had told him the truth — that he'd watched his wife with other men because he felt compelled to know which were her lovers. It made sense. But Ryan had wondered, all the same. He still did. Dad had been obsessive, merciless. Ryan would wake in the night to the sound of him interrogating her, it sounded like — loud and intimidating and angry. What had a certain man said to her? Why had they been on the phone for so long? Who was the guy she'd spoken to at the grocery store? Mom's voice had always been low and placating in reply, and Ryan could never make out the words. He wondered, though. He couldn't imagine that Mom had had an affair with the father of Tom, his own best friend. The knowledge that Mom had been unfaithful had made Dad lose perspective. Some of his accusations, at least, had to have been wrong. Dad had never been an easy man to live with. This was why Ryan hadn't broken contact with his mother. He found it impossible to believe that the fault was all on Mom's side. Marriages didn't work like that. A couple of times he'd almost asked her about it. Tell me why you did it. But he'd held the question back for complicated reasons, which he was only now, at thirty-two, beginning to understand. He hadn't wanted answers from Mom that would have forced him, irrevocably, to take one or other parent's side. And if Mom had slept with the fathers of his friends, he didn't want to know.
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"You're miles away, Ryan," Linnie murmured. "Just thinking about Mom and Dad." v"I know. I was, too, before." "I feel like I'd do anything in the world to avoid getting to that point with you. How could the two of us ever get to that point? Skirting the edge of the room to make sure we don't cross paths, not even able to look at each other..." Ryan pressed his forehead against hers. Melinda closed her eyes, then felt his kiss on her mouth. She returned it with a depth of need that frightened her, in the context of Jack and Belle Courcy's antagonism. "How do we stay on the right road?" Ryan muttered. "I don't think love's enough." "With honesty?" She looked into his eyes. They seemed clouded still. "Okay, Linnie, if honesty is all it takes, tell me honestly what was going through your mind while you listened to Jared. What pull did he have on you?" "The pull of the past," she answered, trying to keep her words as simple and true as possible. "The pull of all the tears I cried over him. I couldn't help thinking about how quickly my tears would have dried, at twentyone, if I'd known then that Jared would come storming into my wedding to tell me he loved me after all." "You never told me you'd exchanged rings." "There are a lot of things we haven't told each other yet." The band brought its medley down to a quiet rhythm in the background, and the emcee announced the three other couples in the wedding party who would now take the floor. Again, Ryan and Melinda had had to partner the group carefully. Tom with Sunny, Belle with Bob, Shallis with Jack. After just a few minutes, the invitation to dance was extended to everyone, and Grandma Courcy cut in on Melinda quite shamelessly, to claim her turn with Ryan. "You've done your duty," Mom told their best man at the same time. She patted Tom on the back, then came and hugged Melinda. "Happy, darling?" Dad stepped forward and twirled Belle beneath his arm at that moment, just as Shallis steered an awkward Jack Courcy in the same direction. Belle and Jack both began to apologize, until they suddenly saw who they'd bumped into, at which point Jack turned on his heel and barged from the dance floor. His head of steel-gray hair hung low between his hunched shoulders. "Of course I'm happy," Melinda answered Mom. They'd both seen the uncomfortable incident. I should never have said "of course." It's like "trust me" — the more strongly you say it, the less true it sounds. "Honey, I want to talk to you," Mom said. "Can we slip away for a few minutes?" "Not too far." Melinda didn't want Ryan unsure of where she was. They compromised on the telephone alcove near the rest rooms, and Mom didn't waste any time. "I saw what happened at the altar today." "Everyone did, Mom." "I saw your face. Honey, whatever you do, don't settle. If you married Ryan for the wrong reasons, it's not too late to do something about it. Better to get a divorce now than to wait until you're meshed together by a house or, worse, kids. I'm telling you this from the heart, because I know. The worst thing you can do is settle for less than the love of your life."
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"Sunny?" "Bob? I didn't see you." "I've been looking for you to see if —" Melinda's father shook his head, as if his original reason for seeking out his wife was totally unimportant now. "What the hell are you telling our daughter?" He strode forward, electric in his anger. Melinda had never seen him look this way before. Her Mom turned pale. "I —" "Are you saying that you settled when you married me?" he challenged. "The hell you did!" He pulled her into his arms and glared down at her. She seemed mute. "Don't you remember?" he demanded. "Think back, for just a minute. Just think about the way it was for us, think about the way it could still be if you'd let it. Dance this dance with me, and then see if you can still tell me you settled, damn it!" Chapter Seven Mom didn't seem able to take her eyes from Dad's face as they danced together. Watching them, leaning a hand against the same pillar that had hidden Dad's approach from view a few minutes earlier, Melinda was awed. Her parents really loved each other. Their love was overgrown by a tangle of day-to-day distractions and petty differences of outlook, the way an old house could be overgrown by creepers and vines. Beneath the disguising growth, however, the structure of their marriage stood as solid as ever, and Dad just wasn't going to let Mom get away with an ill-thought sense of disappointment. They loved each other. He knew it, and Mom had only temporarily forgotten. Shallis linked an arm through Melinda's, and watched, too. "Dad can be pretty impressive sometimes," she murmured. "He sure can." "You're like him, Linnie. You cut to the heart of things. You don't get distracted by the surface sheen." "I hope you're right. Mom just told me I shouldn't settle. She's afraid I've settled for Ryan. I'm not sure if she was suggesting she'd settled for Dad, but he overheard her, and he took it that way. Now he's on a mission to prove to her that it isn't true." "And is it true for you, Linnie?" "No!" She said the word so forcefully that it stung her throat. "Dear Lord, no, it isn't true, Shallis!" She blinked back tears. "And does Ryan know that?" "I've tried to tell him. I've tried to show him. But I don't think he believes it, and I'm not sure what more I can do."
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They switched their focus to Ryan. Grandma Courcy had let him go after their dance, and he'd found Melinda across the now crowded dance floor, his gaze arrowing to her unerringly, as it always seemed to do. He smiled. "He's coming this way. Go meet him," Shallis urged her, but before Melinda could move, she saw Belle claim him — not to dance, but to sit at her table and talk. The chandeliers had dimmed by this time, replaced by whirling disco lights and a mirror ball. Waiters moved unobtrusively through the room, clearing away dishes and glasses. A few of the guests looked as if they'd made too many trips to the bar. Soon it would be time to cut the four-tiered cake that sat on a special table in the corner near the band. And then it would be time for the bridal couple to leave.... "Talk to your mother-in-law," Shallis said. "You and Ryan have spent too much time apart tonight." But Melinda shook her head. "Their conversation is private. I can see that. And it's serious. I won't interrupt." "Jared has left. I thought you'd like to know. That'll make things easier on all of us." "Will it? I'm not sure. Even if he'd never showed up at the reception, he did all the necessary damage at the church." *** "I can see that something is wrong between you," Ryan's mother said to him. "I've been so afraid that your father and I would leave you with this kind of legacy." "Is that what you think is going on here?" Ryan glanced toward his father, who stood with his elbow propped on the bar. Dad had done his duty as father of the groom for a while, but then he'd retreated into himself. He seemed to prefer the company of the stranger who served his beers to that of his relatives and friends. "It's what I'm afraid of. Trust her, Ryan. Believe what she tells you about what happened today in the church. If she has to live day after day with the knowledge that you don't trust her to the very depth of your heart, it will kill her love long before it kills yours." Ryan shifted in his seat, disturbed by the intensity of his mother's words. "Is that what happened to you and Dad? Tell me, Mom. Tell me your side of it. I've wanted to know. I've come to doubt that all his suspicions and accusations have been true." "Why haven't you asked before this?" "Why haven't you told me if you have a case to put? I guess I haven't asked because I've thought that if you had any defense, you'd have told me without my asking." "I needed to wait until I thought there was a chance you'd believe me." "And that's now?" She gave a shrug. "Love can change things. If you love Melinda in the right way, it will make it easier for you to understand. I never cheated on your father, Ryan." "You left your marriage, on the night of my twenty-first birthday, to follow Ruthie Miller's father to Florida." His mother gave a tired smile. "Ruthie Miller was having a great time at your party, and she didn't want to leave, so when her dad came to pick her up, he had coffee and we chatted for a while. He told me he was moving to Florida with his work, going ahead of the family to find a house to rent. When the party was over, your father turned on me, the way he had so many times before."
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"Yes, I used to hear..." Ryan's mother gave another sad smile. "And I used to try so hard to keep your dad's voice down, so that you wouldn't." "What did he say that night?" "Oh, the usual, on and on. Was I sleeping with John Miller is what it added up to. And I cracked. I realize in hindsight that the night of your birthday wasn't the best night to choose, but I just couldn't take another night of your father's pathological mistrust. I went to Florida because I'd always wanted to live somewhere warm, and I went to Pensacola. I'm happy there. The Millers moved to Boca Raton." "In the church today, I felt as if I understood Dad — how he must have felt, what it must have been like. It frightened me at the time. Now it frightens me even more." "Why, Ryan?" "I don't want to end up like Dad. I care about him, but I can see what he does to himself. And I'm too much like him in some ways." Ryan's mother stayed silent, watching him, her fading blue eyes deeply troubled, and he realized that she wasn't going to come out with some glib reassurance or wise advice. Solving this was up to him. He stood, looked for Linnie but couldn't see her. A moment later, she appeared beside him and he wrapped his arms around her, aching with the force of what he felt. He brushed his cheek against her piled up hair and inhaled. "You smell good," he said. Nothing clever, nothing persuasive, but sometimes maybe the simplest words were the best. She held on to him, nuzzled him like a cat, and they kissed, their lips clinging together in a blast of brief, sweet heat. "We're supposed to cut the cake," Linnie murmured. "Forget that," he answered. "We need to talk first. Alone." "Right now?" "Right now. I'm not going to ruin another minute of our wedding day with any uncertainty between us." He took her hand and almost dragged her out of the crowded room, wondering just how many pairs of eyes followed their progress. So what if it was a hundred? Not for a second did he give a flying fluke about what anybody thought, except the woman beside him. Chapter Eight The summer darkness was mild and filled with nighttime sounds resembling soft music. Ryan held Melinda's hand as they walked across the grass to the tiny rose garden beside the hotel. She wanted to hug him closer, but didn't dare to yet. They had to talk first. Her heart beat faster, and she searched her mind for the right words to convince him that her feelings for Jared were truly in the past. She sensed that he wanted to be convinced of it, that he would listen with the right kind of ear, but still she felt as if she was on trial. How could she plead her case? Rehearsing the words in her head felt terrible, so she began to speak them out loud, deciding to trust that the right phrases would come. "Ryan, I want to tell you —"
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"Hey... No." He turned her into his arms and looked down at her, his eyes smoky and hard to read in the blue darkness. He brushed the ball of his thumb across her lower lip, and she took in a hiss of breath, aching to feel his mouth there instead. Need and desire coiled deep inside her. What he did to her was magi , so strong. "I know what you want to say, but you can't," he told her. "Ryan, I —" "I mean, you mustn't. I won't let you. It's my turn, now." "Okay." "I was so wrong to talk about divorce — to threaten you with it, punish you with it, the way I did. I heard my father's voice coming out of my mouth today, and it terrified me. I was wrong about everything I said. I'm not going to ask you for proof or assurances or anything. Mom and I talked...." "I saw you. I didn't want to interrupt. It was good to see you looking as if you were getting closer to her again." "I'm not going to tell you what she said right now. There's time for that. Our whole lives, I hope." His arms tightened around her. "I hope so, too, Ryan." Her voice fogged. "I trust you, Linnie. That's the only thing I really need to say. I trust the choice you made today. I trust that you wouldn't have made it if you didn't know that the right feelings lay behind it. And I trust your courage. If you'd wanted to go with Jared, you would have had the courage to go." He shook his head. "I — I want to say more, but I don't think there is anything more. There's just this. Trust. And love." "Mm." Melinda couldn't speak. Her eyes brimmed. She closed her lids and tears ran down her cheeks. Ryan bent and kissed them away, his lips tickling and feathering her lashes, and when his mouth closed on hers, she could taste the salt. They needed sugar to take the taste away. "Is that cake calling to us?" she murmured. "Not until I've kissed you for a whole lot longer." "Yes, please..." His mouth was so slow and lazy on hers, you'd have thought they had all the time in the world. His tongue painted her lips with flame, and his fingers braided her nerve-endings into a web of electric sensation. Her whole body was a sigh, a ripple, a song. She anchored her hands to his hips, feeling the strength in him, enveloped in its aura. Her breasts began to tingle and swell, and heat and heaviness pooled deep inside her, making her throb. She rocked her hips against him and felt how hard he was. Soon she'd have his satin skin beneath her hands and they'd heat each other to the breaking point. She could hardly wait. "Linnie," he said on a ragged breath. His fingers combed her hair, scooped down to her jaw, lifted her face higher so he could kiss her more deeply. "I want — "So do I. So much!"
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Under the onslaught of his hands, her hair came tumbling down to her shoulders and they both laughed. "Everyone will know...." she protested. "Good. How about you loosen my tie and unfasten a button or two on my shirt? I want people to know this about us. That we can't keep our hands away. That we melt together when we touch, and the whole universe shifts when I'm inside you. That we belong to each other." He buried his face between her breasts, and she arched and shuddered, clung to his shoulders, closed her eyes. "Oh, Ryan..." "What's the tradition on this cake thing?" he muttered. "Someone else can cut it, right? Your sister? The band?" She laughed again. "No, Ryan. We have to do it ourselves. Together. With your hand over mine." "That bit sounds good." "And you should probably refasten your shirt." She lifted her hands to her hair, intending to check the damage, but he took them away before they got there. "Leave it," he said. And she did, knowing he was right. Back in the hotel ballroom, they found Sunny, Shallis and Belle locked in an agitated triangle of consultation. Empires might fall, apparently, if that cake was not cut soon. Shallis swooped down on Melinda and whispered in her ear, "Is everything okay?" "Everything's great." Mom elbowed Miss Tennessee aside. "You are your father's girl. It really hit home to me tonight. And I'm so proud of you! Are you all right, honey?" "I'm fine. I'm fabulous." A couple of feet away, Belle hugged her son. "I knew you would get it right with your bride. Be a friend to your dad now that you know the truth. You don't take after him nearly as much as you think. Soften him a little if you can." "I'll try, Mom." The band had detected the return of the bridal couple to the ballroom. With all eyes riveted on them from the moment of their entrance, detection hadn't been hard. The musicians struck up some introductory bars of music, which quickly died away. Melinda barely heard the announcement about the cutting of the cake as a waiter wheeled the cake table forward. She took the knife, with its ribbon-tied pearly handle, and Ryan's warm hand curved over hers. They made the first cut together, releasing the rich scent of chocolate into the air from below the thickly piped white frosting. Melinda scooped the first square morsel in her fingers and lifted it to Ryan's mouth. Their eyes met as he took it between his lips and licked every crumb of chocolate from her fingers. Then it was his turn. She opened her mouth, and the flash from the photographer's camera caught her stretching forward a little to meet Ryan's symbolic offer of food. The ballroom erupted into applause, and they laughed and kissed. "Is this what your mom means by a Star Moment?" he whispered.
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"No, this is what I mean by a Star Moment," she answered. "Even though everyone's looking on, this is just for us, and we'll have moments like this to share forever." "Forever," he echoed. "If that's how long you want." "That's at least how long I want," Melinda answered, as the band began to play once more.
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Wedding in Venice by Lucy Gordon Ever since her parents divorced when she was a child, Justine has prided herself on being unromantic. She's not opposed to a little a male distraction, when she can find the time, but she'll never give herself completely to any man. Though she doesn't approve of the way her friend Dulcie was dazzled into love by a charming Venetian aristocrat, Justine has agreed to come to Venice to photograph their impending wedding. But she is determined not to get swept up in the romance of the city herself. Will all that change when she meets Riccardo, a gorgeous Venetian hotelier with an overwhelming lust for life? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE Your trouble is that you never take risks," Dulcie said. "Who? Me?" Justine queried, her face full of innocent indignation. Below them was a flash of sun on water as the plane from England circled Venice Airport before coming in to land. "I'm always taking risks," Justine said firmly. "I nearly broke my neck last month, hanging over that cliff to get a picture of a gorilla." "Oh, gorillas! Cliffs!" Dulcie dismissed all such trivial dangers. "You're a professional photographer. I know you take that sort of risk. I'm talking about people." "You mean men," Justine said frankly. "Fine, let's talk about men. They're great fun — in their way." "When you've got time for them, you mean," Dulcie teased. "I'm always dashing off on assignments. I have to fit male distractions into my schedule. It's just common sense." "You have too much common sense," Dulcie reproved her. "It's getting in the way of your life. When are you going to let your hair down and throw caution to the wind?" "Like you, you mean? One wink from a gorgeous Italian and you were a goner." "Guido isn't Italian. He's Venetian," Dulcie corrected. "Does it matter?" "Yes," Dulcie said, considering this seriously. "They wink differently. It's more intense somehow. You'll find out for yourself." "Not me," Justine said firmly. "I won't keel over just because an Italian — sorry, Venetian — gives me the eye. If he winks at me, I'll wink at him. If he looks me over, I'll look him over. Then I'll decide if he's up to standard. What I won't do is simply go weak at the knees." Dulcie laughed. "Just wait until you meet a Venetian." When they left the plane Dulcie cleared Customs fast, racing straight into the arms of her fiancé.
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Justine took her time, checking that her photographic equipment was undamaged. She was in Venice to take pictures of Dulcie's wedding. As she emerged from Customs she could see the other two locked in a passionate embrace. Justine grinned. Since Guido lived in Venice and Dulcie in England they hadn't seen each other for weeks, and she guessed this bit was going to take a while. To pass the time, she took out a mirror and checked her appearance, which had survived the flight in good condition. Her hair was red, not auburn or sandy, but a true, blazing red. She grew it long, but wore it swept up. It made a striking effect with her green eyes. The lovers finally drew apart, laughing and happy, and Dulcie introduced Justine. Guido greeted his fiancée's friend warmly and led them out of the airport, which was built on the edge of a large expanse of water. "This is the lagoon," he explained. "Venice is out there in the center, so we reach it by motorboat. The barges you see there are collecting goods to supply the shops and hotels." One barge was being loaded just next to them. On the quay stood a pile of boxes filled with bottles of wine. Getting them down should have been a job for two men, but one man was tackling it alone. One foot on the barge, one on the narrow stone steps, he swung up to lift a heavy box, then down to lay it in the boat. He looked to be in his early thirties, was tall and lithe, with an easy grace and a strength that treated the heavy weights as nothing. Justine noted his very short black denim shorts, which revealed long, powerful thighs. He wore nothing else. His feet were bare, and so, she noted with interest, was his broad chest, which glistened in the sunlight as he dipped and stretched to reach the boxes. His black hair was a little too long, and was shaggy and damp from his efforts, clinging to the heavy muscles of his neck. It made her smile just to look at such intense, masculine beauty. Then he looked up and caught her gazing at him. It was too late now to pretend that she wasn't studying him. He didn't seem fazed, though. Perhaps he was used to women's admiring glances. His grin seemed to confirm it. He had a wide mouth, which gave the biggest smile she had ever seen. It was blazing, glorious, lusty with life. And he aimed it straight at her. Then he winked. And Justine gasped. Dulcie was right. They did wink more intensely, a blatant invitation that said, "Come on in." And suddenly she didn't know what to do. CHAPTER TWO The boatman's expression and the whole attitude of his athletic body was an invitation to the party of life, and for a moment Justine was stunned. She turned to Dulcie to see if she had noticed the bold boatman, but her friend was busy helping Guido load their bags into the motorboat. Stop dithering, she told herself. You enjoy a good party. She pulled herself together and winked back. His returning smile said, Message received and understood, which irked her slightly. She, herself, wasn't quite sure that she understood.
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But she wouldn't be seeing him again, and perhaps that was just as well. He was just a little too sure of himself. They were almost ready to go. Justine settled herself in the back of the boat and Guido started the motor. The sudden churning of the water made the barge rock, knocking the stranger off balance and overboard. Immediately he climbed back aboard, pushing the soaking hair back from his eyes, visibly cursing, but unhurt. Justine had a last glimpse of him, covered in water, shining in the sun. Then she was speeding across the lagoon, looking about her in breathless wonder as Venice came into view. Suddenly she realized that the barge was overtaking them. At the back stood the man, almost dry now from the effects of the wind, which blew his dark hair straight back from his face. It was a powerful face, Justine realized, slightly saturnine, yet still with the quality of humor. The chin was stubborn, the nose slightly hooked. Not a conventionally handsome face, but one that would be remembered when pretty boys were forgotten. He turned his head to give her that marvelous grin again, and she had a strange feeling that he had caught up especially for her. She mouthed, "Are you all right?" But then remembered that he probably didn't speak English. But it seemed that he did, for he raised a thumb and nodded. "È Riccardo," Guido yelled. The man in the barge waved at him, then sped up and passed them. Justine, who was sitting behind Guido and Dulcie, called, "You know him?" "Yes, he's —" the rest of the words were drowned out by the noise of the motor. Then she forgot everything as the boat slowed and they entered Venice, gliding along narrow waterways between ancient buildings in a quiet rhythm unlike the harried tempo of most cities she knew, until they finally reached the Grand Canal. Here was the Palazzo Calvani, where Guido lived with his uncle, Count Calvani. The count was away until the next day, so Guido entertained them alone. At dinner he was charming company, but he was shooed away when Maria, the dressmaker, arrived late in the evening with Dulcie's wedding gown. "I came out to Venice for one fitting a few weeks back," Dulcie told Justine, "but this is the moment of truth. Let's go upstairs." The dress was an extravagant confection in white satin and lace, with a long, wide skirt and floor-length veil. Justine snapped madly with her digital camera as Dulcie turned in front of the mirror. When the dressmaker had gone, Justine got out her laptop and began downloading the pictures from the camera. Dulcie gasped when she saw them on the screen. "Tomorrow I want to go outside and take more pictures of you wearing this," Justine said. The photographer in her was at work now, picturing this gorgeous dress against the canals, the picturesque buildings.
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As she worked, she asked casually, "Who was that man who passed us on the water this morning, the one Guido called Riccardo?" "I've never met him," Dulcie said. "Guido has a lot of boatman friends, so he's probably one of them." Justine let it go. It would be a mistake to seem too curious. *** They set out next morning so that Justine could photograph Dulcie in the lovely dress against the background of Venice. She took picture after picture, exhilarated by the beauty she was capturing. "Just one more," she said at last as they stopped in a little square by the water. "Stand by that fountain." She arranged her shot, focused and took a step back, then another, and another. Totally absorbed, she failed to notice that she was getting closer to the canal. Dulcie's cry of warning came too late, and the next moment Justine was stepping back into nothing, and falling. She gave a yell of despair as she thought of what the water would do to her precious camera. But there was no water. Instead she landed on something that felt relatively soft. Sprawled inelegantly on her back, she had a grandstand view of the man she'd seen yesterday, standing over her, regarding her with recognition and delight. He gave her a mock bow, reaching forward to pull her into a sitting position, and saying, "It's a pleasure to meet you at last." CHAPTER THREE It was definitely the boatman from the previous day, wearing slightly more today: a sleeveless black vest and a pair of threadbare jeans that ended just below the knees. Close up, he was even more overpowering. Justine had to resist the temptation to stare like a dizzy schoolgirl. He shouldn't be allowed, she decided. That tan, those white teeth, the strength she could sense in his hand, with its hint of even more strength leashed, the glint of the devil in his dark eyes — there ought to be a law against him. But if there was a law, he would ignore it. She knew that already. He would ignore anything that didn't suit him. At the moment it seemed to suit him to keep hold of her hand, although she was sitting upright now, and there was no need. He sat down beside her. "Are you all right?" he asked. "That was quite a tumble!" "Not as bad as the one you took yesterday," she reminded him. "But I landed safely in the water." "Well, I landed safely on — cabbages? I'm sitting on cabbages?"
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"And onions and potatoes and lettuces. This barge belongs to the Hotel Busoni, and I'm taking supplies to the kitchens." "Well, I'm very glad you were passing just then, or it could have been really nasty. The water wouldn't have done my camera any good." "Then I'm happy to have been of service," he said with an air of chivalry that sat oddly with his threadbare clothes. He squeezed her hand gently between both of his. "I hope I haven't squashed the vegetables," she said, reluctantly disengaging her hand and feeling around gingerly. "I don't want to get you into trouble." "Please don't worry about me," he said gravely. You're sure your boss will be okay?" "Let's say I can handle anything he's likely to throw at me." "Hey, how do I get out? That ledge is way above me." "Because this is low tide." "You mean I'm trapped here?" "Only until we reach the next flight of steps." He pointed to where she could see steps cut into the stone, about ten yards ahead. "But we're not moving," she said. "That's because we've hit a traffic jam," he pointed out, indicating several other barges, bent on the same errand, that were blocking their way. "Where's Dulcie?" she asked, looking around. "Your friend is back there. We moved on for a bit after you fell." Justine could just make out Dulcie standing by the water, at the place where she had gone in. She waved and caught her attention. Dulcie doubled up with laughter, and indicated that she would walk along the canal's edge to join her, but Justine firmly waved her back for fear of damage to the lovely wedding dress. Dulcie nodded, agreeing to wait. "I'm taking the pictures of Dulcie and Guido's wedding," Justine explained. "You know Guido, don't you?" He grinned. "Everyone knows Guido. He's crazy." Seeing her puzzled look he added, "In Venice, that is a compliment." "I see — at least, I think I do."
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He extended his hand again. "I am Riccardo Gardini." "I am Justine Bentley." They shook hands. "Will you remain in Venice for long?" he asked. "I don't know. I've got a few days before the wedding, then I'll stay on to get some shots of the city, but I'm not sure just how long that will take." "It will take a lifetime," he said at once. "You will never come to the end of Venice. There is always one more beauty to be seen, one more mystery to tease you. So you must stay here forever." "Well, it's beautiful enough, I agree, and I really want to see it all." "Then I shall arrange it so that you do." The lordly way he said, "I shall arrange it," made her lift her eyebrows. Just who did he think he was? And what did he think she was? An easy pickup? "Say that you will spend some time with me," he coaxed. He was the most dangerously attractive male that she'd met in a long time. Did anything else matter? vAnd then she saw something that drove everything else out of her mind. "Oh my goodness, look at that!" she breathed. "Maria Vergine!" he exclaimed, looking around. "What's the matter?" "That!" she said, pointing over his shoulder. "Oh, help! I've got to get out of here, fast." CHAPTER FOUR "Where's the fire?" Riccardo demanded, looking around to see what had agitated Justine. "Dulcie!" Justine cried. "Look at her! Oh, how can that happen and me not be there?" Turning to look behind him, Riccardo saw Dulcie standing by the canal in her wedding dress. A sudden breeze had arisen, whisking the long veil high, so that it seemed to stream up to the sky, making a perfect gauze halo about her. Dulcie's face was raised and she was laughing with delight. It would have made a glorious picture. And Justine was missing it. "Can't you take it from here?" Riccardo asked. "I am," she said, snapping away madly, "but it won't be the same. I need to get close, but how can I while we're stuck here?" "Like this," Riccardo said, placing his hands on her waist and hoisting her up.
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She had a brief sensation of flying, as though she were no more than a bag of feathers he was tossing. Then she landed and scrambled to her feet, almost in one movement. "Thank you," she gasped, beginning to r n. "Good luck!" he called, but she was already beyond hearing. Riccardo watched her, wryly aware that she had completely forgotten him. Only a moment ago the air had seemed to sing with the intensity of something that was starting between them. He had asked her to spend time with him. She had hesitated, but his well-honed instincts told him she was about to fall into his net. But she had escaped at the last minute through one of those twists of fate that even the best fishers of women could not anticipate. And she hadn't even glanced back for a last look at him. Faced with a good picture opportunity, she'd wiped him from her existence. Riccardo wasn't a conceited man, but this was not what he was used to. Honor demanded that he did not leave matters there. They had unfinished business. As he went on his way, he was smiling. *** "I can't believe that happened," Justine wailed as Dulcie's veil floated back down to earth. "That would have been the shot of shots, the big one. Aaaarrrgh!" "It's not fair," Dulcie agreed sympathetically. "Still, you got some lovely pictures before that." But Justine couldn't be consoled. As they made their way back to the Palazzo Calvani she was still mourning "the one that got away." It was Riccardo's fault, of course. If he hadn't kept her talking she would have been back to work in moments. I hope his vegetables rot, she thought grumpily. As soon as they reached the palazzo, Dulcie changed out of the wedding dress and settled it on its stand to await the big day. Then she went to Justine's room, and found her downloading the morning's work. "Guido's gone to collect Uncle Francesco and Liza from the airport," she said. "I'm longing for you to meet them." "They're getting married the day before you, right?" "Right. It's such a romantic story. They've been in love for fifty years, but Liza wouldn't marry him because he was a count and she was his housekeeper. After all this time, she's finally agreed. It's so sweet to see how much they love each other. Guido and I are going to be exactly the same when we're old." Justine gave a brief, wry smile that made Dulcie cry out, "What's that for? I know you pretend not to believe in love, but even you have to agree that it's a beautiful story." "I do believe in love," Justine said. "Love is real. It's the 'eternal' bit that I can't swallow."
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"Fifty years sounds pretty eternal to me." "Sure, a fifty-year courtship!" Justine chuckled. "I believe in that. But you know as well as I do that it's when people get married that things start to go wrong." "Let's be glad the rest of the world doesn't know it," Dulcie observed, "or the human race would die out. Three cheers for men and women getting together." "Ah, getting together. That's different," Justine said, her eyes twinkling. "I believe in that." "That's them," Dulcie said, at a sound from below. She vanished. Justine waited, giving her friend time to greet her new family. Just when she was thinking she should go down and be introduced, Dulcie came flying back. "You could be right," she said, sounding agitated. "Maybe love doesn't last. Uncle Francesco and Liza have had the most terrible quarrel." "After all this time? What about?" "I don't know, but from the way they're glaring at each other there's big trouble. Maybe there'll only be one wedding after all." CHAPTER FIVE Count Calvani was a tall, handsome man in his early seventies. Liza, too, was tall, thin and frail-looking, but with an indomitable face. Just now, as Dulcie had warned, both faces were glowering. They both greeted Justine warmly, and Liza summoned wine and cakes from the kitchen. But she and the count carried on the battle in low voices. "They're talking Venetian dialect, which I don't understand," Dulcie said. "Guido, whatever's happened?" He grinned. "Uncle was thinking of having a last-minute party the day after tomorrow, then he changed his mind, thinking it would be too much work for Liza, with the wedding feasts as well. He was being considerate but she's mad at him for 'not having faith in her.'" "But can't a hotel do the catering?" Justine asked. "What about —" inspiration seemed to strike her from the blue "— what about the Hotel Busoni?" Guido's eyes lit up and he immediately spoke to his uncle in rapid Venetian. Dulcie smiled and gave her the thumbs-up sign. "What an inspiration," she told Justine. "The owner is a friend of Guido's. The hotel hasn't been long, and he needs all the work he can get." Justine was amused when Guido turned his charm on Liza, putting his hands together imploringly. At last the old woman smiled and gave him a light slap, clearly telling him to stop his nonsense. Guido grinned and leapt for the telephone. A swift conversation in Venetian ensued, after which Guido said, "He's coming over after dinner, before Liza changes her mind. Hey, Justine, fancy you thinking of the Busoni!" "It's the only Venice hotel I know," she said quickly.
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Over dinner she had the chance to observe the count and Liza when they weren't squabbling and had to admit that they made a charming couple. The handsome man was so dotingly in love with the plain woman that Justine's cynicism took a knock. But she settled it back into place, reminding herself that she didn't believe in eternal love. She couldn't afford to believe in it. They had coffee in the garden overlooking the Grand Canal, with a clear view of the floodlit Rialto Bridge. Justine fixed her eyes on it, concentrating on the beauty so that she didn't have to think too closely about what she had just done. What had possessed her to suggest the Busoni? Who said that Riccardo would be making the hotel's deliveries anyway? And what did she care whether he did or not? "He's here," Guido said, jumping up and heading toward the building, from which a figure was just emerging. "Riccardo!" Guido yelled. "Justine," Dulcie said excitedly, "isn't that the same man who —?" "Yes," Justine murmured. "It is." The light and shadow contrasts of the moonlit garden emphasized everything about him that had made an impact on her. He was just as she remembered, but more so. "Justine," Guido said eagerly, "do you remember this guy from the journey yesterday?" "Oh, we've met since then," she said, extending her hand to Riccardo. "I fell into his barge this morning, and I can promise you, his cabbages are the best." "I'm saving money on staff by doing some of the donkey work myself," Riccardo said. He was talking to Guido but his eyes were on Justine, and his hand held on to hers longer than necessary. "I would have told you the truth this morning," he said, "but you ran away without giving me the chance." "Plus you enjoyed having a joke at my expense." "Well — yes," he admitted. "To think I was worried about getting you in trouble with your boss!" "I did tell you that I could handle anything he threw at me," he reminded her. "Hmm, so you did!" He grinned. "You don't trust me?" "Where would you get an idea like that?" she asked ironically. "From your voice, your eyes, your face. It's an interesting question for the two of us to explore. Unfortunately, it must wait until my work is finished."
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It was reasonable for him to put work first, but his lordly assumption that she would wait like a doll on a shelf riled her. "That's sounds fascinating," she said, "but it's been a long day. I'm sure everyone will forgive me if I go to bed." Riccardo's eyes gleamed, acknowledging a round to her. "You are wrong," he murmured. "I will not forgive you. But I can bide my time." CHAPTER SIX Justine slipped away alone the next morning. This was a working trip, and as well as photographing the wedding, she wanted to explore Venice. She called Dulcie to say she wouldn't be home for lunch. "I'm in St. Mark's Square. I'll get something to eat here." "You should go to Florian's," Dulcie told her. "It's a genuine eighteenth-century café, and Casanova used to go there because it was the only one in Venice where women were allowed." Justine found Florian's and sat in the window drinking a sinfully delicious concoction of coffee, chocolate and cream, and listening to the four-piece orchestra playing just outside. The surroundings were still as they must have been two hundred years ago. If she closed her eyes she could see Casanova, a tall, elegant man in powdered wig and knee breeches. In her vivid imagination, he paused a moment, smiling before he spoke. "Can we talk for more than two minutes this time?" His voice was familiar. Justine opened her eyes to find "Casanova" pulling up a chair beside her — in the form of Riccardo. No wig or knee breeches. Just black jeans and a black shirt that showed tanned, muscular arms. In these sedate surroundings, his look of having just stepped off the brig of a pirate ship made him riotously out of place. He hailed a waiter and ordered something for himself and a repeat of her order. "You shouldn't have done that," she said urgently. "I swore I'd only allow myself one." "I think you can afford the calories," he said with an admiring look at her tiny waist and long legs. She was used to that kind of look, but this was different, as though he had taken in everything about her in one instant. She hoped she didn't look self-conscious. "I'm sorry about my little deception," he said. She gave a rueful smile. "You don't expect to find a hotel owner collecting his own vegetables. And you were so convincing as a bargee. You swung me up onto the bank as if I weighed nothing."
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He laughed and flexed his biceps theatrically. "No problem. I developed these tossing sacks of potatoes around." She joined in his laughter, but regarded him wryly. "I see. Women, potatoes — it's all one, huh?" His eyes gleamed with pure mischief. "Oh, no! Not at all. Between a sack of potatoes and a woman — well, one is a lot more fun than the other." She felt a sudden flicker of self-consciousness, and was annoyed at herself. For Pete's sake, she was a woman of the world, not a blushing violet! She'd known where this might lead as soon as their eyes met on the lagoon the first day. But the word "fun," signposting the way ahead, had almost caught her unaware. Yes, he would be fun, she thought, considering him. The whipcord strength of that easy, loose-limbed body, the sensual light in his eyes, his air of devilment. Fun. But also a great deal more. "It's early days for the hotel," he said, apparently not seeing her turmoil, or choosing not to see it. "I turn my hand to most things. Tomorrow night I shall be serving food at the Calvani party." He watched as she sipped the sweet drink he had ordered for her. "You never really answered my question yesterday," he said. "How long do you mean to stay in Venice?" "You practically answered it yourself." "Yes, I told you that you should stay forever. I'm afraid I tend to arrange people's lives for them, like a dictator. But only the ones I like." "I don't know how long I'll be here," she said, not answering this directly. "Is there nobody waiting for you at home who will object if you stay away too long?" "No," she said wryly. "There is nobody who will object if I stay away too long." "There ought to be. Please excuse me — I told you I was a dictator. To me it is so clear that you are a woman who should not live alone —" "But perhaps it's my choice, and then you really are being a dictator." "Is it your choice?" "I'm divorced," she said abruptly. "Your wish or his?" "He slept with someone else. I threw him out. End of story." "Had he been faithless before?"
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"If he had, I'd have thrown him out before." "You didn't want to try to save your marriage?" "There was nothing to save," she said tensely. "It was over." "So quickly? So easily? So ruthlessly?" The last word was like a dagger. "I really have to go," she said, rising. "Thank you for the coffee." "Are you offended with me?" "Yes. You have no right to — Never mind." She fled without a backward look. CHAPTER SEVEN Justine spent the rest of that afternoon in St. Mark's Basilica, judging angles, working hard to put Riccardo out of her mind by sheer force of will. But when she returned to the Palazzo Calvani, Dulcie was bubbling with the day's events. "Riccardo came this morning to check things for the party. I was just talking to him when you called." So their meeting had been no accident. He had known where to find her. The thought gave her a strange feeling. *** The palazzo was filling up with guests. On the day of the party several of the count's cousins arrived from distant parts of Italy. Once, looking out of a window, Justine saw Riccardo arrive in a barge laden with food and two members of his staff. She turned away quickly. She did not want to think about him. He had left her thoughts in turmoil with his casually cruel remarks. So easily! So ruthlessly! What did he know? "You look upset," Dulcie said. "It's just that I found myself talking about Neil yesterday. Now I wish I hadn't." "Do you regret divorcing him so fast?" "Not you, too! I did what had to be done. That was it." More guests arrived and Dulcie went down to greet them, leaving Justine with her thoughts.
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It had been a mistake to marry Neil — she'd known that even on the wedding day. They were in love, but she didn't believe in love — not the lasting kind. How could she when her parents' divorce had left her homeless? Both of them had remarried, and she had been shunted around to a series of aunts, "until things settle down." But things had never settled down. Eventually she'd realized that there was no place for her in either home. After that she had set her face against the world. She had an eye for shape and color, which had made her a success as a photographer. As her success grew, so did her social life. She was beautiful. Men wanted her. And that was fine, as long as they didn't ask for her heart as well. She had locked that up in a safe, bolted, barred and labeled Do Not Touch. With Neil she'd taken the risk, and it had been a mistake. Luckily they'd both seen the light in time. They'd had a nice, civilized divorce, and in future she would stick to adventures. Riccardo should have been an adventure. But he wouldn't stay in his right place. A few moments of alarming insight had turned him into a threat. For dinner she put on a figure-hugging cream dress cunningly contrived to be demure and enticing at once. Around her neck she wore a chain of solid gold. With her dramatic red hair, the effect was striking. "You'll have them all at your feet," Dulcie had predicted earlier, chuckling. But the first one at her feet was Riccardo, literally. He was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase as she descended. He was more formally dressed now, in black trousers, snowy shirt and black tie. As she neared, she waited for his grin of lusty appreciation, but tonight his demeanour was grave and gentle. "I won't keep you a moment," he said quietly. "I had to tell you that I'm sorry for having distressed you yesterday." "You're very kind, but I wasn't distressed," she said, trying to sound cool and indifferent. "Forgive me, but I know that you were, otherwise you would not have run away." "I did not run away," she said, her temper rising as she began to feel threatened again. "I had work to do. End of story." "Do you know how often you use that expression?" he asked softly. "Always you try to bring the story to an end at the moment of your choosing. But nobody can do that. The story ends when it ends." "And do you know how often you lecture me?" she asked, speaking in a furious whisper. "I'm sorry. Yes, that is a fault of mine." "Why do you think you have the right?" "Because you matter," he said simply. No, I do not matter to you, and you do not matter to me. Please let me pass." He stood back and inclined his head politely.
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"As the signora pleases." She stared, shocked. He'd reminded her that tonight he was here as a servant. Perhaps he thought she was a snob who'd cold-shouldered him on that account. But before she could tell him he was wrong, Dulcie called back from the door, "Justine, come and meet somebody." She smiled, hurried across to where boats were drawing up at the palazzo's landing stage, and was engulfed in cheerful greetings. When she next looked, Riccardo had gone. CHAPTER EIGHT A party in the Palazzo Calvani was a step back into an age of elegance. Thirty people dined at the long rosewood table, eating off Sèvres porcelain and drinking from crystal etched with the Calvani crest. Riccardo had prepared a banquet fit for a king. It was served by the palazzo servants, but under his eagle eyes. As he had told Justine, tonight he was the headwaiter. It was Justine's first experience of Venetian cuisine, and she promised herself it wouldn't be the last. A dish of sardines in onions, pine seeds and sultanas was only the start. After that there was squid in tomato sauce, pork loins with Swiss cheese and shallots, with pears in hot chocolate to follow. Clearly, whatever else he was economizing on, Riccardo had hired a superlative chef. There was more to him, she realized, than a lusty charmer. There was also a serious businessman who knew exactly what he was doing. She tried to smile at him to show her appreciation, but discovered that it was impossible. He never came near her or met her eyes. Obviously he'd blanked her out because of his absorption in his work. In which case she could hardly complain, she thought wryly, because it was exactly what she had done to him. And she would be glad to believe that was the only reason. She didn't like to think of what the other one might be. After dinner there were toasts, then everyone drifted into the garden to drink coffee under trees hung with colored lights. There were more toasts to the two brides. Justine watched Liza and Dulcie standing together against the background of the canal. They were the two happiest women she had ever seen, because they loved their men and were loved by them. Justine's eyes blurred. Just for a moment, it was hard to remember that love was only an illusion. The evening was breaking up. The guests who were staying in the palazzo began to yawn. Those who had to travel were making movements to leave. Justine went out to the hall, meaning to go, with everyone else, to the landing stage on the Grand Canal, where the glossy motor boats were waiting. From here she could see the other landing stage, round the side of the building, where Riccardo was preparing to leave, packing his things into the barge. He was alone, having sent his staff on ahead to the hotel. She knew she must talk to him before he left. As he came inside to collect more boxes she approached him. "That meal was a masterpiece," she ventured.
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"The signora is too kind." "Don't talk to me like that," she begged. "What I said before — I didn't mean it the way I think you took it. You were right. I was upset with you, and I ran away. Then I was even more upset because you noticed." The gentle look was back in his face. For a moment she thought he was about to say something, but then — "Riccardo!" Liza was calling him, hurrying toward him with her arms outstretched. "You did a wonderful job," she said warmly. "Dear Liza!" He embraced her back. "I couldn't have done it without your help." Liza laughed and indicated Justine. "Here's the one you should really thank. She told Guido to give you the job." Riccardo turned puzzled eyes on her. "I suggested a hotel to help Liza," she said hastily, "and the Busoni was the only name I knew at the time. I had no idea that it was yours." "Nonetheless, I am in your debt, Signora. Good night. Good night, Liza." He turned away and jumped down into the barge. He was going, and she knew that if he left like this she would not see him again. And she must. The barge engine was starting up. She had only a split second to decide. The next moment Liza gave a little shriek as Justine went running out onto the landing stage and leapt. CHAPTER NINE This time there were no comfortable cabbages to break her fall, but Justine managed to land on her feet at the bottom of the barge, steadying herself by seizing hold of Riccardo. He swiftly put his arms about her. "Signora," he protested, "you cannot go on hurling yourself into my boat whenever the mood takes you. People will talk." "If you'd waited I wouldn't have had to throw myself at you," she pointed out with impeccable logic. She was feeling light-headed and in good spirits. The crazy impulse had improved her mood. The barge swerved and with one hand he hastily seized the tiller, which he'd abandoned to clasp her. But he kept his other arm about her. He did not ask why she had done such a thing, nor did she explain. She would have found it hard to do that, even to herself. Although it was late, there were still lights on the banks of the Grand Canal. Their reflections glowed in the black water, shivering and dancing as the last boats went home. "Are you cold?" he asked, looking down at her bare shoulders.
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"Not at all." The night air was growing cool, but she was pervaded by warmth. Down the long curve from the Rialto Bridge to St. Mark's Square they glided until at last Riccardo pointed upward to a building with an ornate front, and the words Hotel Busoni in neon. "Mine," he said proudly. "At least, it will be when I've paid off the bank." "Shouldn't it be the Hotel Gardini?" she asked. I'll change the name when I feel a little more confident of success." That touch of diffidence surprised her. Riccardo had seemed confident enough for anything. He swung left into a tiny canal and tied the boat up at the landing stage. When he had climbed out with one box, she lifted the next one up to him. "You can't help me with this," he protested. "Yes, I can," she said firmly, hoisting up another box. There was a trolley by the landing stage. He piled the boxes onto it and led her down a narrow corridor to the hotel's rear entrance. It was late and only a few staff were about. The kitchen was empty. By now it was no surprise to Justine when he put on a large white apron and began unpacking the boxes. "This is something else that you do yourself?" she asked. "Night staff is expensive. When the last shift has gone home I finish up whatever there is to do." "You have to work late here every night, all alone?" "Yes, but I wouldn't have it any other way. This is my best time, when I feel this place is most completely mine." She found another large apron and put it over her dress. He did not protest this time, but gave her a smile that was different from any smile he had given her before. It was no longer the "come-on" look of the pirate, but the secret signal of a conspirator. It welcomed her into his world. And she was beginning to feel as if that was where she wanted to be. While he emptied the washing-up machine of the load that had finished, she scraped plates and handed them to him to fill it up again. "There's still plenty left to do," she said, "so we'd better do them by hand." She got busy at the sink, working vigorously, until she looked up and found him regarding her strangely; not with a smile this time, but with a look that was half rueful, half wistful. What?" she asked. "This is not how I planned our first evening alone together to be," he said.
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"But you told me yourself, you plan too much," she reminded him. "Sometimes it's better when things just happen." He nodded. "You are wise." Still he stood there, eyes fixed on her, until she said gently, "Would you hand me that plate, please?" "What plate?" He sounded dazed. "The one just next to you." He gave it to her. Justine turned back to the sink and got to work, but only half her mind was on what she was doing. The skin at the back of her neck and halfway down her spine seemed to have come alive with the awareness of him behind her. He was going to kiss her just there, she knew it. The hairs were standing up on her neck with the sense of him moving toward her. But nothing happened, and when she looked around, he was gone. CHAPTER TEN Riccardo was back in a moment, carrying plates. Justine had returned to work at the sink, apparently unconcerned. But she was aware of him now in a new way. A moment had come and gone, and something sweet and indefinable had happened. She washed, he dried, and in about an hour they had finished. "Let me show you my home," he said. He took her hand and they wandered through the quiet building. It was a beautiful place, furnished in the eighteenth-century style and, apart from a man on the night desk, they were alone downstairs. "But up there, every room is full," Riccardo said, looking up to the ceiling. "When you said your home, does that mean you live here?" "Actually, I do, but I meant more. This building used to belong to my family. I was born here, but when I was six my father lost money on bad speculations and had to sell the house. That was when it became a hotel. Ever since, I've dreamed about reclaiming it, and in the end I managed to raise the money. Now I have to keep it." "Will that be very hard?" she asked. "Yes, but it's all I want to do." "So that's why you double as your own dogsbody? I suppose you live in an attic, too?" His eyes gleamed. "I live under the stars." It soon became apparent that Riccardo meant exactly what he said. His home was a tiny apartment at the top of the building, but on top of it he had built a square balcony. Brick pillars went up through the roof, supporting a wooden platform surrounded by a trellis fence on which roses flowered.
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"Here we are up among the stars," he said, "and all around us, Venice is sleeping." Down below she could just make out the sloping roofs, the little streets, called calles, where faint lights still glowed. Straight ahead was the softly lit bell tower of St. Mark's, the only other thing that rose this high. Beyond it, in the far distance, the faint glimpse of water glittering under the moon. "Wait here," he said, and disappeared back down through the trapdoor that led down to his apartment. Left alone, Justine looked about her at the dark blue night, with its faint lights winking like jewels against velvet, and marveled at so much beauty. In the distance she could hear the echoing cries of gondoliers going home, calling warnings to each other as they approached corners. It was an unearthly sound, like the music of the spheres. After a moment Riccardo returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. "I think we've earned this," he said. She sat down on one of the seats he indicated, and found that it stretched back to become a recliner. "I often go to sleep out here," he said. "On warm summer nights it's the best place." "I can imagine," she said, sipping the champagne he offered her. "It's so perfect — almost too perfect." "Why do you say that?" he asked quickly. "Well, nothing is ever as perfect as it seems, is it?" "Perhaps it is, once in a blue moon. But even if not, shouldn't we enjoy the illusion of perfection while we can?" "I think that's dangerous," she said quickly. "Why store up disillusion for yourself?" "Why deprive yourself of all faith in beauty?" he countered. "Or don't you believe in beauty, either?" "Of course I do. How could I do my job without it? I believe in it but…I suppose I don't trust it." She walked to the railing and stood sipping champagne, looking out into the blue and silver night. Now words felt like an intrusion. She wanted only to let the night, and the beauty, take possession of her. She sensed him coming to stand behind her. This time, she knew that he would not go away unless she told him to. He laid his lips softly against the back of her neck, and the feeling shivered through her. He kissed her there for a long moment, while she stood quite still, savoring the sweet sensation, the pleasure and the happiness. She drew a long breath. The situation was slipping out of her control, and of all feelings that was the one she dreaded most. Somehow she must be strong enough to leave him now, or it would be too late. Or perhaps it was already too late. She turned to face him. CHAPTER ELEVEN It was Justine who turned the embrace into a kiss, putting her arms about Riccardo's neck, so that he could be in no doubt of her intentions. "Justine," he whispered, "Justine…"
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Everything he wanted from her was in his voice. He wanted her, in every way, and at this moment she would have given him all that she was, if only — If only she was a different person, a woman who wasn't afraid to give her heart, afraid of her own self, her own feelings. Dulcie had said to her, "When are you going to throw caution to the wind?" But she had learned that caution over a lifetime, and it was too late for her now. He murmured her name again against her lips, deepening the kiss in a way that was part plea, part demand. She responded fiercely, longing for the moment when emotion and sensation would take over. But it didn't come. Try as she might she could not force her heart to rule her head. The knowledge made her want to cry out in despair, but she couldn't change anything. "What is it?" he asked, sensing her inner struggle and loosening his grip. "Have I misunderstood? You do not feel as I do?" "I don't know how I feel. How can I know so soon? How can you?" "I do know." "You can't," she said desperately, trying to make it true by the force of her assertion. "Don't tell me how I feel," he said quietly. "But we've only known each other a few days, and we've hardly talked at all." "Perhaps it's as well. Talking is when people make mistakes about each other. I have made no mistake. I know what I feel about you. But if you wish, I'll wait a little while before saying it." "And then I'll be gone," she said, suddenly wistful. "You must not go before I tell you that I love you." She surveyed him wryly. "That's very clever," she said. "Very subtle. Very Venetian." "What do you know of Venetians?" "I'm learning fast. You're great talkers." "And you think it means nothing?" "It means whatever you want it to mean at the time, and then tomorrow it means something else." She attempted a teasing tone. "You can tell me you love me tonight, if you want to." "Can I indeed?" "Yes, except that I won't take it seriously. By tomorrow everything will change. But tonight is fine." "Do you think I need your permission to love you?" His voice was still quiet.
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"Hey, lighten up," she said, still trying to turn it all into a joke. "We've got the moon and the stars and Venice. Why spoil it by getting serious?" He didn't answer, just looked at her strangely, like a man trying to comprehend a baffling enigma. Justine went very deliberately to the recliner, sat down and reached out to him in invitation. After a moment he came to her and took her hand, then knelt beside her and gathered her in his arms. Now it would happen, she promised herself. Now the attraction that had drawn them together from their first glimpse outside the airport would take over so completely that she could forget caution. He kissed her slowly, one hand beginning to trace a path from her face, down her neck to her throat. Excitement leapt in her like fire, sending its message in all directions, to her very fingertips, to the heart and depths of her. As his hand began to drift lower she took a slow breath, eagerly yielding to her sensations. And then, just as the world began to dissolve, leaving behind only him, it was all taken away. She felt him freeze, then withdraw from her. Reluctantly Justine opened her eyes and found him looking at her tensely. His breathing was harsh and uneven, and she could feel the strain that racked his whole body. "What is it?" she whispered. "What's the matter?" "The matter is that this is not right," he growled. "How can it be wrong if it's what we both want?" "Is it? Can you look me in the eyes and say that you truly want me, as I want you? Or are you saying to yourself, I've gone too far to turn back now? Tell me the truth, Justine. I need to know." CHAPTER TWELVE Riccardo's words made Justine feel as if he could see right into her. She couldn't bear that scrutiny, and closed her eyes. Understanding everything in that gesture, he rose sharply to his feet and moved away from her. "This is not how it must be between us," he insisted. "Why do you have to analyze everything?" she cried. "Leave the inside of my head alone. What happens in there is nothing to you." "If you were just a brief fling that might be true. But you matter. I want to make love to you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, but it has to be all of you, your heart and your mind, as well as your body." "Maybe I don't have all that to give. Why can't you be satisfied with what there is?" "Because you're worth so much more," he said simply. He went to the trapdoor and held out his hand to her. "Come." "Where?" "I'm taking you home."
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There was nothing to do but agree. The night was suddenly dead. On the way down he collected one of his jackets, and slipped it about her shoulders. "Where are we going?" she asked, for he didn't turn toward the landing stage. "It's only a short walk. The boat brought us almost in a circle, and now the palazzo is just a few streets away." "How quiet everything is," she said, listening to their feet echoing on the flagstones. "This is the best time," he said, "when the people have gone in, and the ghosts come out." "Ghosts?" "Venice is full of ghosts. They haunt the corners and the little alleyways in the twilight. But don't be afraid. They're friendly ghosts. In Venice they have known love, and been happy, and now they cannot bear to leave it." She tried to be sensible. It would be easy to become drunk with the words of this charming dreamer. But being sensible didn't really seem very important any more. What was important was to stroll through these narrow alleys, letting him weave magic spells around her. There would be time for common sense later. After a while he fell silent, but the magic continued in the unearthly quiet of a city where there were no cars. His arm was around her shoulders, drawing her close so that she was intimately aware of the warmth of his body. The stress of the evening fell away, and a blessed calm fell over her. Desire had passed into tenderness, giving her a space that she badly needed. "Here we are," he said at last. "Where?" "The Palazzo Calvani. This is a side door. You must ring the bell, but not just yet." He stroked her face with gentle fingers. "When the weddings are over, promise me that you will not leave without seeing me again." "I promise," she whispered contentedly. After the evening's stormy, unfulfilled passion, he now kissed her like a boy on his first date, lips caressing hers almost uncertainly, if such a word could be associated with this man. She relaxed into the warmth and tenderness that he offered, not wanting it to end. It was he who drew back. "Good night," he murmured. "Good night," Justine whispered back — with just a hint of wistfulness. He rang a bell by the door. "The porter will let you in. Good night." He moved away swiftly and was out of sight before the porter admitted her. Justine hurried up to her room.
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At the turn in the stairs there was a half-open window that looked out over the street where they had said goodbye. She could see the place where they had stood together, and wondered where he was now. Then she saw something that might have been a shadow, standing by the corner. She blinked, and the shadow vanished, only to reappear. Surely it was her imagination? For a moment she had thought the shadow was familiar, and that he was gazing directly up at the window, as though reluctant to leave her. But when she looked again, he was gone, as elusive as a ghost. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Guido's cousin Marco arrived from Rome, bringing his English fiancée, Harriet. Marco was one of the most handsome men Justine had ever seen, but, while perfectly civil, he had a distant air. "Harriet and Marco are rather cool for an engaged couple," Justine observed to Dulcie. "They're not like you and Guido." "It's not precisely a love match," Dulcie said. "Harriet is the granddaughter of his mother's oldest friend." "You mean they're not in love?" Dulcie chuckled. "They think they aren't." The last one to arrive was Leo, Guido's half brother, an amiable young giant whom Justine liked immediately. He arrived in Venice direct from Texas, where he'd been visiting a ranching friend, enjoying himself riding and "fooling around" as he put it. Justine gathered that he'd also met Selena, a rodeo rider who'd made more of an impression on him than he wanted to admit. Dulcie and Harriet promptly settled down to grill him about her, until he grinned sheepishly and escaped. "I'll swear he was blushing," Justine chuckled. Dulcie nodded. "I don't think we've heard the last of Selena." She seemed to be floating to her wedding on a tide of serene happiness. Liza, by contrast, was in a state of nerves, suddenly declaring that she needed help with the food. "But she wouldn't hear of it the first time," Justine protested. "I know," said Dulcie, "but she liked Riccardo, so I think it's an excuse to send some more work his way. Also," she added with a significant glance at Justine, "I think she may be doing some matchmaking." "I can't imagine why," Justine said stiffly. "Well it's your own fault. If you will hurl yourself into a boat driven by a ludicrously attractive man, spend the night with him —" "I did not spend the night with him — not the way you mean, anyway." "Well, you came home with the dawn."
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"I bet you were all hanging out of the windows," Justine said wrathfully. Dulcie chuckled. "Let's just say it's not a secret." "So he'll be coming here to talk to Liza?" Justine asked, trying to sound indifferent. "I'll tell Liza you want him," Dulcie said mischievously. "You do and you're dead!" Justine said quickly. Her own heart was hidden from her. Did she want to see Riccardo or not? He was dangerous because he wouldn't be pigeonholed, and he wouldn't let her take control of their relationship. But that was the only way that she felt safe. That day she took her camera and went to explore Venice, thinking that when she returned he would be gone. But suddenly she felt distressed at the thought of missing him, and ran all the way back. Then, disgusted with herself for shilly-shallying over a man, she refused to go anywhere near the kitchen, where he probably was, and sought the garden. And there he was, talking and laughing with Guido, Marco and Leo. Worst of all, when the three Calvanis saw her, they immediately vanished with a speed that told her what the palazzo gossip was. "I had hoped to find you here," he said, when they were alone. "I have a lot of pictures to take," she said. "I'm hurrying to get everything done before the wedding." "Of course. I, too, have much work to do, but I couldn't leave without seeing you. Does that make you angry?" "Of course not. Why should it make me angry?" He gave his wry smile with the wicked hint of mischief, and she had to work hard not to be melted by it. So much that I do seems to annoy you," he said. "I've learned to tread carefully. I'm really very scared of you." "Don't be absurd," she said, laughing despite herself. What could you do with a man who talked like this, except smile back at him and feel that the day had become brighter? To give herself a moment she turned away to lean on the railing overlooking the Grand Canal. Riccardo came to stand close behind her. "There's something I must tell you," he said quietly. "What?" "That I've thought about nothing but you since we said good night." CHAPTER FOURTEEN "Nothing but me?" Justine asked lightly. "I hope you gave some thought to the food as well."
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Riccardo didn't answer at first, but turned her to look at him. "It's no good," he said at last. "You can't make a joke of it. That won't solve the problem. And somehow we have to find a way to solve it." "So you admit it's a problem?" "Of course it's a problem when a man has fallen in love with a woman, and she —" "Don't you dare say that I'm in love with you," she spit out. "How can I? I don't know, any more than you do. I only know that you're fighting it — fighting me. And you're angry with me. Can't you tell me why?" "You know why," she murmured. "I don't want to feel what I'm feeling. I've got my life in such good order, and you're threatening everything." "No, I'm only threatening the bolts and bars with which you try to imprison yourself." "You think I want to be locked in there?" "Partly, yes. Prison can be a very comforting place. You know where everything is. But I won't let you cling to it. When the wedding is over, I shall be back, knocking on the door." "And you're so sure that I'll open it for you?" "No, I'm not sure at all. I'm never sure with you. Perhaps that's why it has to be you and no other." The sound of voices from inside the building drew them back to reality. "I must go," he said reluctantly. "But I'll be back." He would have turned away, but Justine detained him with her hands on his shoulders, just long enough to kiss him gently. "Yes," she said. "You must come back." *** The next day saw the first wedding, that of the count and Liza, a small, private occasion that took place in a side chapel of St. Mark's Basilica. The day after, it was Dulcie and Guido's turn. No city in the world staged a wedding like Venice. It was normal for a bride to go to the church in a gondola, but Guido sometimes amused himself by being a part-time gondolier, and many of his friends had turned out for the occasion. At least twenty gondolas escorted Dulcie down the Grand Canal from the Rialto Bridge to the landing stage at St. Mark's. Justine took pictures to her heart's content, traveling just ahead of the convoy in a motorboat. Landing first, she was able to witness Dulcie's arrival at the great church. *** When the bride and groom emerged from the basilica together Justine took her final pictures and raced for the motorboat, to be whisked back to the palazzo and start frantically downloading. When she'd finished, she joined the reception for her final shots, which she took between mouthfuls of wedding cake.
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At last the tables were cleared away for the dancing to begin. Dulcie and Guido took the floor, to applause. Gradually the other guests joined them, until everyone seemed to be dancing, except Justine. The music was sweet and sensuous, disturbing her vaguely. Nobody should listen to music like that without dancing to it. "You look tired," said a sympathetic voice at her shoulder. She turned and saw Riccardo holding out a glass of champagne to her. She drained it thankfully. "Hey, Riccardo" came Guido's cheerful voice as he danced past with his bride in his arms. "Your duties are finished. From now on you're our guest. Riccardo smiled and nodded, taking Justine's hand. "Dance with me," he said. As if in a dream she circled the floor with him, feeling the movement of his legs, the closeness of his body to hers, and knowing that she had been waiting for this all day. She had expected him to talk, trying to dazzle her with words again, but instead he looked at her tenderly, in silence, until she could sense that he was caught in the same dream. Then there was a small commotion. Marco and Harriet were dancing together, absorbed in each other as she hadn't seen them before. Justine remembered Dulcie's prediction that they were more in love than they thought, and reckoned it might be true. Everyone else thought so, too, because suddenly they were crowding around them, demanding that they set the date for their own wedding. Justine didn't stay to hear what happened. Riccardo had clasped her hand and was drawing her out into the garden. CHAPTER FIFTEEN The garden was flooded with light from the colored lamps hung between the trees. Guests milled everywhere. "Let us escape them," Riccardo said, drawing Justine beneath the trees, and not stopping until they had reached the furthest part of the garden. Once there he wasted no time before taking her into his arms. Justine went willingly. It was no use pretending to herself that she didn't want to kiss him. She wanted it passionately. He had said he'd thought of nothing but her, and she knew now that everything that had happened to her in those few days, everything she'd seen or heard or done, had simply been another way of waiting for him. Once before she had come alive in his arms, high on the roof, under the stars. Some part of her was still living in that moment, ready and eager for his touch. The words he wanted to hear were hard for her, but her mouth spoke to him just the same, caressing his with skill and joy, saying things that could not be said aloud, and eliciting a response that thrilled her. She could feel the excitement mounting but was no longer sure whether it was his or her own. Where did he end and she begin?
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"I mustn't kiss you too much," he said at last, huskily, drawing back. "It's dangerous." She laughed recklessly. "What's wrong with a little danger? I thought you were the kind of man who enjoyed it." "Don't provoke me, Justine, I'm almost at the end of my control already." "Then let's be sedate and well behaved," she said, forcing herself to back away from him. It was hard because she was as fired up as he. She went to the stone wall and looked out over the water. "Look there," Riccardo said. "Do you recognize them?" A solitary gondola was gliding out from the palazzo. Justine could see Dulcie reclining in her wedding gown, while Guido took the oar. "He's got a tiny apartment tucked away somewhere," she said. "Dulcie said they're spending their honeymoon there, away from the world. What an incredibly romantic way to end a wedding!" "Romantic. Meaning that you disapprove?" "I wish them well. I hope they'll be the one couple in the world to prove that it can work the way it's supposed to. "Don't forget the promise you made me, not to leave without seeing me again," he reminded her. "I've seen you twice since then." "Not the way I meant. I'll call for you in the boat tomorrow morning and take you — well, wait and see." "I may have other things to do tomorrow." His answer was to wrap his arms tightly about her, taking her prisoner. "No," he said firmly. "You haven't." "Oh, yes, I have," she retorted playfully. "Oh, no, you haven't," he assured her just as playfully. "Well then, I guess I haven't." She smiled. He kissed her briefly and released her. "I'll see you tomorrow." He slipped away before anyone could see them together, and Justine wandered back to the wedding, where everyone was toasting Marco and Harriet. *** She dressed for boating in dark blue trousers and a white silk top.
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Riccardo was waiting for her in Guido's motorboat, borrowed for the occasion. He was dressed in black shorts and shirt, the black stark against the brown of his skin. He reached up to help her into the boat. teady, careful," he said. "I'm not breakable." She laughed. "I could simply jump in. Or fall in. I've done it before." "Yes, twice," he agreed with comical gravity. "It's causing talk. If you do it a third time you'll have to marry me." She shook her head, her eyes dancing. "A terrible fate." "Do you think so?" "I meant for you. Imagine having to marry me for a reason like that." "I'd marry you for any reason if I thought I could talk you into it." CHAPTER SIXTEEN For a while Justine concentrated on enjoying the day out as Riccardo gently urged the motorboat down the Grand Canal and out into the lagoon where there were miles of open water, bounded on the far side by the long islands of the Lido. "Where are we going?" she asked, standing beside him at the wheel. "We're going nowhere," he replied, putting his arm about her and drawing her tightly against him. "Where's nowhere?" "Wait and see." That was fine with her. Who could ask for more than to drift across the water, going nowhere with him? "There's some champagne below," he said. She went down and found the boat less cramped than she had expected. There was a large cushioned space, almost as big as a double bed. In the picnic hamper she found champagne and glasses, and took them up. He stopped the boat within sight of some of the smaller islands, and they drank contentedly. "If this is nowhere, I love it," she said. He nodded. "The most peaceful place on earth." He brushed her face gently. "I love you." She shook her head. "Don't." "Do you find it so hard to believe?" "So quickly? Yes, it's hard."
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His shrug had a touch of helplessness that sat oddly with his usual air of confidence. "I, too, was taken by surprise. You see, I'm like you. I plan my life ahead. I had not planned for you, and yet there you were, at the airport. "Justine, I don't understand what's happened to us any more than you do. I only know that it has happened, and there's no going back. To say that it's too soon, that we've barely met, is easy. I admit it, but it changes nothing. "That day I went to the airport, I had nothing on my mind but collecting supplies. Then I looked up and saw the woman I'd been waiting for all my life. She was red-haired and glorious, and she looked me straight in the eye in a way that said, 'Fool with me at your peril.' "I'd never had a challenge that thrilled me more. There and then I decided to fool with her. And the more I knew her, the more I knew it had to be for the rest of my life." "Don't I get a say?" "Of course. Tell me what you want from me. A brief adventure? Fine. We'll have an adventure. And afterward you will stay with me forever." "Then it wouldn't be an adventure," she countered. "An adventure is brief. That's why it's an adventure." "And you don't think that spending your life with one man might be an adventure?" That's just clever words." "What you really want is a fling, but flings are for people who can't commit themselves." "You forget I've been married." "No, I don't forget. But I don't think you committed yourself to that marriage, otherwise you wouldn't have 1cast it aside at the first hurdle." "You know nothing about it," she cried, on the defensive again. "Then tell me. Show me that I'm wrong." "I don't have to explain myself to you." "Not to me, but to yourself. Have you ever tried to do that, beyond believing that all your prejudices had been proved correct?" "I don't have to listen to this." "Fine, run away." Justine looked all around her. Water everywhere. "Well, I can't, can I?" she seethed. "I'm trapped out here now." "Ah, yes! I never thought of that." "Like hell you didn't."
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He grinned. "Will you please start this engine and take me back to Venice?" "I've got a better idea," he said. "Why don't we go below and have something to eat?" For a moment she glared at him, then relented. "All right, but it's under protest!" "Of course. You'll find the smoked salmon tastes just as good under protest." She aimed a friendly punch at him. It was too glorious a day for anger. The picnic hamper was full of the very finest from the hotel. As she unpacked and they reclined against the cushions, she asked, "How is it you were able to take the day off?" "I did well out of those catering assignments, so I could hire some extra help for a few days. This is more important." As he'd promised, the food was exquisite. For once she forgot about healthy eating and indulged herself. Afterward she was suddenly sleepy, and when he drew her back against his shoulder she nodded off at once. She awoke to find him watching her and had a sudden conviction that he'd been doing that all the time. v"Now tell me about yourself," he said. "I want to know everything." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Held in the safety of Riccardo's arms, Justine struggled with memories that usually she tried never to think of. "Until I was eight years old I thought I had a happy home. I knew my parents loved each other more than they loved me, but there was love to spare for everyone, or so I thought." Justine let out a sigh. It was difficult for her to talk about this. "My mother used to say that being in love was the most important thing in the world, and nothing mattered more than being true to your heart. "But then she fell in love with another man, and he became the most important thing in the world — enough for her to leave us to be with him." Justine gave a little wry smile. "She had to be true to her heart, you see. Well, she was. She made a fine romantic heroine, giving up everything for love. But one of the things she gave up was me." Riccardo was watching her with shocked intensity. "She didn't take you with her?" "But how could she?" Justine asked in a rallying voice. "Romantic heroines can't have eight-year-old kids in tow." He gave her hand the smallest squeeze, as if to show that he understood her irony. "So you stayed with your father?" he asked. "For a while. Then he dumped me on one of his sisters while he went out on the town. He didn't want me cramping his style, either. In due course he fell in love again.
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"They sent me to boarding school for a while. Then there was some mix-up about who was supposed to be collecting me for Christmas. In the end, neither of them did. I spent Christmas in the care of the Social Services." Riccardo swore violently. Justine didn't understand the words, but from his tone she guessed it was a profanity. She felt vaguely comforted at the fierceness of his empathy. "I never lived with either of my parents again," she went on. "Neither of their new marriages lasted. My mother is currently being true to her heart in South America with a man ten years younger. We don't keep in touch." "So that's why your views are jaded," Riccardo said. "And who could blame you?" "As far as I'm concerned love is just an excuse for selfishness." "In selfish people, yes. But love doesn't make us what we are. It merely reveals the truth about us. Selfish people love selfishly, generous people love generously. Your parents were spoiled brats, but don't blame love. It didn't make them that way." "It gave them the excuse," she said stubbornly. "But you were married. Didn't you love him?" "So much that it scared me." "Ah. I see." "Don't say that. You don't see anything. I wanted our marriage to work, but — I can't explain —" She could never explain the fear that had pervaded her. Too much happiness, she had thought. one day it would be snatched away. Watch for that moment, be ready for it, go to meet it with a smile, and don't let anyone know you care. Never, never let them know that. No, she couldn't put these things into words. But then, looking at Riccardo's face, she knew she didn't have to. He understood everything. He'd seen into her soul with eyes of love and seen the turmoil of rage, bitterness and misery that was insidiously driving out everything else, until the best had all gone. "He wanted a child," she said abruptly. "I didn't. Not then, anyway. Who am I to be a parent? So we started to quarrel. One day — one day, I realized that the quarrels were destroying us." "So you quarreled harder, to drive him away," Riccardo said. "You reckoned that would be less painful than waiting for the breakup to occur naturally." She stared. "How did you know that?" "It's not magic. Attack sometimes seems the best form of defense. But it leaves you with nothing." "I can cope with nothing," she said desperately. "It's what I'm used to. What I can't take is believing in something and then learning all over again that it's an illusion." "I know," he said gently, tightening his arms and drawing her against him.
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In the comfort of his embrace it was easy to fall asleep again. When she awoke it was night, and they were speeding back across the lagoon. "Where are we going now?" she asked, coming to stand beside him at the wheel. "Home," he said. She didn't ask where he meant. A few minutes later they had stopped in the small canal that ran by the hotel, and were climbing up to the stars. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The dawn came softly and quickly, ushered in by the bell of St Mark's campanile. Justine stood on the balcony on top of Riccardo's apartment, and marveled at the beauty of the morning. She had spent the night in his arms, not making love, but enclosed in safety. Instinctively he had known what she needed, and had given it to her. A generous man, loving generously. He came up through the trapdoor, bearing a cup of hot tea. "You're a magician," she said. "I'm just ready to murder for a cup of tea." She sipped blissfully, looking around her and down into the narrow alleys. Then she stiffened. "What's that? It looks like water in the streets." "It is," Riccardo sighed. "It's high tide and the lagoon has flooded. It used to only happen in winter. Now it can be at any time." The photographer in her spoke at once. "I must get my camera." He grinned ruefully. "How did I know you were going to say that? Come on, I'll take you home." Outside she found the whole aspect of Venice transformed. Wherever she looked the narrow streets seemed to be lakes, and although the water was only four inches deep the effect was still staggering. Running like children, hand in hand, they splashed their way back to the palazzo and secured all her equipment. "First we go to St. Mark's Square," he said. "It's an astonishing sight when this happens, and it won't last long because the tide will turn." It was like that all day. He acted as her caddy and her advisor, telling her where to find the best shots. "I love this city," she said as they finally sat together at Florian's, drinking chocolate. He was clever enough to say nothing, letting her work out the implications for herself. When they came out, the water had gone, and they strolled contentedly back to the hotel. While he saw to some business in the hotel she went up to the apartment and took a shower. He arrived upstairs later to find her swathed in one of his towel dressing gowns, drinking tea. He held out his hand and led her to bed.
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His loving was like himself, generous, skillful, unpredictable. Relaxed at last, Justine responded wholeheartedly, and discovered that she too was unpredictable. It was like finding that you'd turned into a new person. Dozing in his arms afterward she found her mind traveling along new paths of discovery. Much of her business involved traveling abroad. She could run it as well from Venice as from England. She woke to find him planting soft kisses on her face. "Stay with me always," he begged. It would be so easy to say yes, to believe in the bright dream. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him. Now the last leap seemed not only possible but easy, inevitable. But before she could speak her cell phone shrilled. "Answer it," he said. "There's time enough for what we have to say to each other." It was Dulcie, calling from her honeymoon hideout. "Blissful," she said in answer to Justine's question. "I can recommend marriage." Justine laughed. "That's very interesting." "But something sad has happened. Harriet has left Marco." "What? But they were setting the date," Justine protested. "I know. Now it's all over." When the call ended Justine slowly replaced the receiver, feeling stunned. "What has happened?" Riccardo asked, with foreboding. "Harriet and Marco have broken up. Two days after it was going to last forever." In a daze she saw the bright dream disintegrate and fall with tinkling shivers around her feet. So much for love eternal! What had she been thinking of to believe in such stuff? She began to laugh, falling back on the bed, contorted with mirth. "Is it funny?" Riccardo asked. "Of course it is, don't you see? Oh, what an idiot I've been!" "Justine, this has nothing to do with us." "The hell it hasn't! It has to do with everyone who buys into that pretty fantasy. And I came so close — but not anymore. I got confused, but I've seen the light now, and I'm going home before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have. Don't try to stop me Riccardo." She waited for him to argue, but there was only silence. It seemed he had accepted her decision and, illogically, she knew a little ache of desolation. If he would only speak a word to dissuade her —
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"I'll take you home," he said. CHAPTER NINETEEN Justine's flight was at noon the next day. At ten, while she was finishing packing, Liza looked into her room to say, "The boat is here for you." The old woman bid her an affectionate goodbye, not hiding her disappointment that Justine was leaving Riccardo. The count also embraced her exuberantly, and escorted her out to the landing stage, where his staff had already piled Justine's bags into the motorboat. She gave them both a last kiss and, turning, put out her hand for the boatman to help her aboard. "Buon giorno!" Riccardo said. "You?" She felt a flash of dismay. They'd said their goodbyes last night, devastated and defeated on her side, quiet and strangely resigned on his. Why couldn't he leave it there? But in the same moment she knew she hadn't wanted him to do that, and the greater pain would be to leave without seeing him again. His hand tightened over hers and he drew her into the boat. When he had seen her seated he swung away down the Grand Canal, then across the lagoon to the airport, reversing the journey of the first day. But something was different this time. Suddenly the engine spluttered and died. "We seem to have a problem," Riccardo said. "I don't believe it," Justine said, jumping up and coming to stand beside him. "There's nothing wrong with that engine." He shrugged. "Let's just say there are things I want to say before you leave. You may ignore them. You probably will. But I can't let you go without saying them." Before he could say more, a large wave made the boat rock, knocking her off balance so that she had to cling to him. He was as steady as a rock. "You see?" he said. "The boat lurches but we don't fall because we cling to each other." "Pretty words, but only words," she said desperately. "You were right when you said that I don't trust love. How can you trust something that's built on such shifting foundations?" Riccardo's answer astonished her. "What's wrong with shifting foundations?" She stared. "Everything's wrong with them. You can't use them to build something that will last." "You can say that after what you saw yesterday, when we had to wade through high tide? You're wrong, and Venice is the proof that you're wrong. No city was ever built on shakier foundations than this one.
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"A thousand years ago our ancestors fled into the tiny islands of the lagoon to escape the barbarians. Here they thrust wooden stakes down into the mud and built a city on top of those stakes that has been the glory of the world. "You've heard that Venice is sinking, and yesterday you saw it for yourself. She's been sinking for centuries, but she's still here. Why? Because those of us who love her fight and struggle to keep her afloat. "Does the lagoon flood? We'll build barriers. Does the humid air rot the pictures? We'll restore them. We never stop patching the old girl up, and she's still with us." "But love isn't like that —" "Love is exactly like that. People change all the time, because life alters them. The man and woman who fall in love are not the same people they will be when their first child is born, then their first grandchild. "If the love lasts it's because they've struggled and adjusted to the endless changes. When the foundations move, they move with them, and so the love survives. It alters. After many years it looks different, but it's still there, and it's still love. Don't you see?" "Yes," she said sadly. "I do see. And you're right." "Well then —" "My darling, please try to understand. I see everything you want me to see. But I can't do it." Silence. Only the lapping of the water against the boat. His face was sadder than any human being's she had ever seen. At last he released her and started the engine again. Soon they were skimming across the water. Gradually the airport came into sight, growing larger every moment, until he slowed and eased into the jetty. In a few minutes she would be gone, and everything would be over. Her heart was breaking, but she had no idea how to stop what was happening. CHAPTER TWENTY Riccardo carried her bags from the boat to the airport buildings and piled them onto a trolley. "I'll say goodbye now," he said briefly. "Won't you come with me to the check-in?" "There's no need." "You can't wait to get away from me." "I thought it was you going away from me." Justine made a helpless gesture. She was beyond speech. "Listen, amor mio," he said, taking gentle hold of her shoulders. "I thought there was still a chance for us, but there's something in you that I can't get past — fear or stubbornness, or just that you don't really love me —" "Don't say that," she cried passionately. "You know I love you."
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"But it isn't enough, is it? Too many ghosts haunt you, and I can't dispel them. I wish I could, because now I, too, have a ghost that will haunt me all my life." "Venice is a city of ghosts," she reminded him. "You taught me that." "Yes, but I didn't want you to be a ghost. I wanted you to be my reality. Instead, you'll be a 'might-have-be,' and that's the worst kind of ghost there is." She nodded. She couldn't deny it. But neither could she stop what was happening. It was like being carried on by the irresistible tide that flowed through the lagoon. "So," he went on, "I won't come any further. I won't watch you get onto the plane, and wave as it vanishes into the sky, because I couldn't bear to." "It isn't that I don't love you," she said huskily. "Please believe me. It's just that I can't take any more risks. "What do you mean 'any more'?" he asked with sudden anger. "You've never taken a risk in your life. Even your marriage was hedged around with safety barriers, and they were what destroyed it. "Do you remember my saying that if you jumped into my boat a third time you'd have to marry me? Do it now. Risk it. Take that third leap, and find my arms outstretched to catch you. Because they always will be." "I know," she choked. "But it's how I am. I can't help it." "Then there's no hope for us?" She shook her head. "Goodbye, amor mio," he said softly. "I shall never forget you." He took her face between his hands and kissed her with a tenderness that broke her heart. "Goodbye, goodbye," he whispered. She clung to him, wanting to prolong the moment forever, but unable to change her mind. He walked away from her toward the jetty. She waited for him to look back, telling herself that until he did that, it wasn't over. But he didn't look back, and she realized that he wouldn't do so. He wasn't sentimental, just a man with a powerful, loving heart that she had rejected. She began to push the trolley toward the check-in, but every step seemed forced. She had made her decision and must stick with it. Even if the rest of her life was desolate. And it would be. That wasn't a risk. It was a certainty. "Defense is the best form of attack, but it leaves you with nothing." "I can cope with nothing."
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Not anymore. In a few moments he would be gone forever. It only needed a little courage and a lot of faith. "Take that third leap, and find my arms outstretched…." She looked around wildly. It was almost too late. She began to run. Outside she could see the water and the queues waiting for motor taxis. He was there, just getting into the motorboat, starting it up. "Riccardo!" she screamed. "Riccardo, wait for me." But he couldn't hear her. The noise of his engine drowned her out. She began to run, frantic as she saw the precious chance slipping away. The boat was drawing away, but at the last moment something made him look back. Justine saw his face, alight with love and joy as he realized what she meant to do. "Wait for me, my love. I'm coming. I'm coming!" The onlookers parted to let her through. She sped the last few feet and took a flying leap off the jetty, soaring high into the air before falling into the arms that were outstretched to receive her forever.
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BREAKING NEWS by Anne Marie Winston Ethan Wilde's mission, should he choose to accept it: very possible and very satisfying. After making his fortune mining in Brazil and living the fast life in New York, Ethan has returned to the quiet town of Bell Gap for his high school reunion — and an excuse to see Lindy Melton! Lindy was the quiet bookworm to his Wilde Man, and Ethan always regretted never asking her out. But Lindy has her own ulterior motives. Clueless with men, she never got Ethan's signals — or anyone else's. And she doesn't want to be the only 28-year-old virgin at her reunion, especially when her ex-fiancé arrives with the woman he left her for. That's where Ethan comes in...
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE Ethan, is that you? Ethan!" Ethan Wilde turned from the trunk of the rental car, slinging his long duffel bag over his shoulder. He barely had time to register the woman's presence before a small, warm female figure hurtled into his arms. He staggered backward a step, his arms coming up to catch her reflexively. His heart began to beat faster as he recognized the unique scent of the one woman he'd never forgotten: Lindy Melton. Just the woman he'd wanted to see, and here she was in his arms before he'd even gotten into his old house. Maybe this trip hadn't been such a stupid impulse after all. "I can't believe you're here!" Lindy said. "I figured you were never coming home again." She wore her hair in a too-severe grown-up twist now instead of the bouncy ponytail of high school years, but he'd know her anywhere. Behind her glasses — small rimless ones instead of the big bug-eyed violet ones she used to wear — her eyes were the same changeable shade of gold and green. Her skin was still the smoothest, satiny-looking skin he'd ever seen on anything other than a peach and her face was still a delicate heart shape with a jaw that was just a bit too firm for her to be the quiet wallflower that everyone assumed she was. "Lindy." She had been his neighbor all through his childhood. They'd been best pals since kindergarten, or at least, they had been until junior high, when she'd started to back off from the bad boy of Bell Gap. She'd been the one person who could rein him in from some of his worst ideas. Even so, they hadn't called him Wild Man for nothing. "I've missed you," he said. It was a gross understatement. He took a deep breath, knowing he needed the answer to the most important question first. "Is there a husband around who's going to give me a knuckle sandwich if I kiss you hello?" She rolled her eyes big eyes. "Are you kidding? There's no husband." Still holding her, he leaned back and studied her face for a moment. Then he dropped his head and gave her a quick, correct peck on the cheek. Lindy. He hadn't been able to get her out of his head since he'd gotten the invitation to their ten-year class reunion two months before. Before that . . . he'd thought of her too often. But because he was the biggest coward this side of the Mississippi, he hadn't ever gotten in touch. Are you home for the reunion?" he asked. She was still slender, still slim and too-inviting in his arms. Not that she'd invited him to do anything like this in high school. He hadn't been this close to her since . . . the Valentine's Day dance in seventh grade. And his mother's funeral six years ago, when she'd hugged him. Twice.
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"I still live here." She was busy pushing herself out of his arms and tidying her skirt, her narrow, graceful hands moving restlessly as she indicated the house behind her. "I'm the librarian now." Ethan chuckled, absently wondering what she'd have done if he hadn't let her go. The job was a perfect fit. "The librarian." He shook his head. "I should have put a bet on that before I left town," he said. She made a small pout of dissatisfaction. "Was I that boring?" He'd swear her voice quavered, and he quickly tried to amend his bald words. "That wasn't what I meant. You're the smartest woman I've ever met. You were the class valedictorian. Makes sense to me that you'd find your niche helping other people to appreciate books." Her expression lightened. The sudden smile that stole across her face was so stunning he simply stopped and stared. He'd always thought she was the most quietly beautiful woman he'd ever known and it appeared she hadn't changed. Clearly, neither had he, he decided ruefully as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. "That might be the nicest thing you ever said to me," she told him. He pretended shock to hide his reaction. "No way. When you fell and skinned your knees chasing me home in second grade, I told you your scabs were terrific." She laughed, displaying a small dimple and straight white teeth. "I've missed you, too, Ethan. Nobody else could ever make me laugh like you could." Great, he thought. Just what he wanted to be — the guy that made her laugh. "So how's your dad?" he asked. Lindy's mother had died when she was small and she'd been raised by her father, a stern man decades older than the fathers of most of their friends. Immediately her face clouded over. "Daddy passed away last year," she said. "God, I'm sorry. If I'd known, I'd have come home." Impulsively he reached out and squeezed her hand. His own mother had died in a car accident six years ago. It had been the last time he'd been back to Bell Gap, the last time he'd seen Lindy. She'd made the arrangement for his mother while he was unavailable in Brazil but once he'd flown in, she'd faded into the background and made herself quietly indispensable taking care of a million small details. Lindy nodded. "Isn't it weird that we're both orphans?" "Yeah." He shrugged. "Stuff happens." Then he smiled at her again. "So tell me about the reunion. Who's in town?" And just like that, her expression closed up. "I really don't know," she said stiffly. "I'm not planning to attend." "Why not?" he demanded bluntly. "I . . . it doesn't . . . oh, fine," she said, "if you want the real truth, here it is: the man I was engaged to ditched me for Mandy Briggs, and I don't particularly want to go and spend a whole evening feeling totally humiliated." She'd been engaged. He was unprepared for the denial that reverberated through him, though he tried to keep his voice steady. "Mandy Briggs. Cheerleader? Bleached blonde? Big, ah, attributes?" As he'd intended, he'd made her smile again. "Yes, yes and most definitely yes." She grimaced. "I couldn't compete with that."
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He guessed she meant men preferred women with hooters the size of watermelons. "You don't need to," he said. "You're ten times more interesting than Mandy Briggs." Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a skeptical look. "You didn't seem to think so in junior high." "You can't judge a man by his behavior during adolescence," he informed her. "It takes us a while to figure out that our brains aren't in our pants." To his relief, Lindy smiled. "And some are faster learners than others." She glanced past him to the car he'd just crawled out of. "Did you come alone?" "Yeah. No family ties yet." "Well, welcome home." Her eyes flickered away from his. He felt like he was boxing shadows. What was she thinking about? Then he remembered the original topic of conversation. And just like that, he realized what he was going to do. He'd come here hoping to see her at the reunion, maybe have a neighborly chat across the back fence if he were lucky. He'd kept his expectations low. "Why don't you go to the reunion with me?" he suggested, trying to sound casual. It was Fate. And he wasn't one to spit in the eye of Fate, not after some of the things he'd seen. Lindy's eyes widened. "Oh, no, I couldn't — you don't want to —" "I do." He reached out and took her hand, ignoring her obvious start of surprise. "I might not remember anyone after ten years away." "Right. We're twenty-eight, not eighty-eight, Ethan." "I'd really like it if you were with me." He smoothed his thumb over the soft skin on the back of her palm. Still she hesitated. "I'll think about it."He nodded. It wasn't the most satisfactory answer, but he sensed that if he pushed her, she might back off even further. "Okay." "I'd better let you get settled in." She slipped her hand free and started to back away, then stopped again. When she didn't speak, he lifted an eyebrow. "Would you like to come over for dinner around six?" Her words were rushed, as if she needed to get them out before she changed her mind. "If you don't have plans, that is?" CHAPTER TWO See you at six. Lindy took a deep breath as she drizzled herb butter over the marinated chicken and pushed it back into the oven. Her heart had been doing a happy dance for the past two hours, ever since she'd seen Ethan Wilde step out of that car. At first, she'd thought it was her lonely imagination working overtime. But he was real. And even better, he was coming over for dinner! She took a deep breath, willing the butterflies in her stomach to settle. He'd asked her to go to the reunion with him. In fact, he'd seemed quite insistent. If she didn't know better, she'd almost let herself believe there had been a gleam of . . . interest in his eyes.
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Ethan. She poured a glass of white wine and swirled it dreamily. He'd been her fantasy since she'd grown old enough to look at him as a man instead of a childhood pal. But he'd been handsome and popular, a bad boy who drew girls like the library's annual picnic drew flies. She'd been a studious little geek, the very last girl he'd ever have looked twice at. It had been too painful to watch him with girl after girl after girl, so she'd gradually faded back more and more. By the time they were sophomores in high school, they'd moved in such different circles she'd been lucky to catch daily glimpses of him in the halls at school. She'd lived for those glimpses. But now he was home after ten long years, if she didn't count his mother's funeral. Still single, her heart reminded her. It was a sign, she decided. A sign that the crazy thoughts that had been swirling around in her head ever since she'd received that invitation to her ten-year high school class reunion weren't so crazy after all. Last week, she'd promised herself she wasn't going to die a virgin, even if she never had another proposal of marriage in her life. And although she'd meant it, she hadn't had any idea how to go about changing her status at the time. Now . . . now Fate had intervened. An opportunity had presented itself and she was going to take her courage in both hands. If Ethan wanted her to go to the dance with him, he was going to have to do her a favor, too. Her whole body clenched in involuntary reaction as she dared to think it: she was going to ask Ethan to make love to her. *** "You want me to what?!" Ethan whirled around from the rail of Lindy's deck, where he'd been studying her riotously blooming flower gardens. She stood in the middle of the deck, tiny feet planted side by side, hands clasped demurely in front of her. Her face was the color of the red roses that climbed one of the porch pillars, but her eyes were steady and her words were anything but demure. "I don't want to be a virgin anymore. I would like you to help me change that condition." He was going crazy. She couldn't have said . . . but she had, in a ridiculously prim little way that told him she wasn't kidding about either her virginity or her desire to lose it. Ethan's body wasted no time in rising to the challenge, but he forced himself to ignore it. "Why?" Her eyebrows snapped together and she frowned. "Why what? How many men would question a proposal like this?" He stalked toward her. "Plenty. Now talk." Her lower lip came out in that adorable pout she'd made earlier in the day. He felt his breath quicken as he wondered what it would be like to touch his tongue to that full lower lip — "All right." Lindy retreated as he closed the space between them, dodging around the small glass-topped table. Now it was her turn to look away. "I'm not exactly an object of lust," she said in a barely audible voice. "That's not —" "It is true," she said sharply. "In high school, you didn't even know I was alive." Ethan stopped in his tracks, too shocked to respond to that. She thought he hadn't been interested? Good God. How blind could a woman be? He was sure he'd given her plenty of signals. But she'd just stuck her head deeper into her books and ignored him. "I don't blame you," she said more softly. Her hands plucked restlessly at the sedate skirt she had changed into. "I'm nothing exciting to look at. And that's the problem." She swallowed and raised her gaze to his. "I'm
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a virgin. I'm twenty-eight years old and my single chance at marriage didn't make it to the altar. I don't want to live the rest of my life without knowing what it's like to make love." He didn't know what to say. He was fairly sure that if he told her she excited him and always had, that the mere thought of being her lover had him as hot and bothered as he'd been back when he was a randy teenager, she'd accuse him of making fun of her and send him away. He could hardly believe it, but the ring of truth in her tone convinced him she wasn't kidding. Lindy was smart as a whip. She was pretty in a quiet, understated way that the Mandy Briggs of the world would never be, but she thought she was plain. Plain. He couldn't believe it. Carefully, he said, "Are you sure, Lin? Your virginity might be a precious gift to the right man some day. I don't think you've thought this through —" "You don't want me." Her eyes shone pure emerald through the tears that welled and began to make silent tracks down her cheeks. "It's okay, Ethan. Can we just forget I ever brought up this stupid topic? I'm sorry for embarrassing you." She turned away from him and he saw her small hands clench on the rough wood of the rail. He wanted to shout Whoa, woman! Let's find the nearest mattress! But as hard as it was to accept, he realized she truly despaired of her appeal. Crossing to the railing, he stepped up behind her and set his hands on her slender shoulders. The muscles beneath his hands felt like the knotted rope he'd carried on his descents into the diamond mines and he gently massaged them as he spoke into her ear. "If you're sure it's what you want, I'd be honored to be your first lover." Merely saying the words aloud sent a shiver of pure sexual anticipation running down his spine. What would it be like when he actually had her bare and blushing in his arms? Lindy went still beneath his hands. "Are you sure? Because if you don't want to you won't hurt my feelings — " "If I don't want to?" He couldn't prevent the note of honest incredulity in his voice, but he didn't care. He slid his big, rough hands down her arms to her much smaller ones, lifting them carefully from the railing. Turning her, he set her hands at his shoulders and slipped his arms around her, drawing her soft, slim frame up against his, shifting her so that his hardening body was cradled in the sweet vee of her thighs. It was such an exquisite realization of his wildest dreams that he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before he could continue. "Does this feel like a man who doesn't want you?" he asked hoarsely. "What —" Her eyes widened. "Oh!" Ethan chuckled, grimly hanging onto control. She was so innocent. How could she have stayed that way for all these years? Slowly, he reached up and took her glasses off her straight little nose, setting them on the table beside him. "I'm going to kiss you," he informed her, looking down into her face so tantalizingly close to his. "A-all right." She immediately closed her eyes and tipped her face up to his. A surprising wave of tenderness swept over him. He started to lower his mouth to hers, but he got sidetracked by the sweet little shell of her ear. He nuzzled her there, pressing small kisses against the tender flesh, drawing her earlobe into his mouth and gently sucking and nipping until her hands slid up the back of his neck into his hair. He pulled her more firmly against him, cradling her head against his shoulder as he worked his way from her ear to her temple. He slid his open mouth down along the fine line of her jaw. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how many years I've wondered what you taste like —" He nipped just beneath her jaw and felt her shudder — "right here?" Lindy made a small sound in her throat. Her fingers clenched in his hair and he allowed her to drag his mouth to hers. As his lips settled over hers, he traced the gentle bow of her lips with his tongue, then urged
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her mouth open, slipping his tongue into her, abandoning his careful caresses and plunging deep after the sweetness she offered. Her response was instantaneous. He felt her go boneless as her body sagged against him, completely surrendering to his control, and he felt an incredibly politically incorrect surge of pure male possessiveness. Lindy was going to be his. With a slow, sure touch, he ran one big palm over her back and around her torso to cover the soft, warm mound of a breast — And Lindy jerked away from him with a startled sound, her eyes wide, the pupils expanded so much that they looked almost black. Good God in Heaven. He'd completely forgotten about the need to go slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pull away." The words tumbled out as Lindy stepped toward him again. She gestured helplessly. "You just startled me a little." Despite his discomfort, he had to smile. He was huge and hard, so aroused that it was actually painful to release her and step away, but he forced himself to do it anyway. "We're not going to jump into bed tonight." His voice sounded like a stranger's, dark and rough, and he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, her or himself. "You're — uh, we're not?" Her tone was dismayed. Her mouth was red and swollen, her eyes still soft and dark. He knew just how she felt and his hands curled into fists with the effort it took not to reach for her again. "No," he said firmly, "we're not. I'm not rushing you into this. A woman's first time should be special. Memorable. And I don't mean in the back seat of a car," he added, forcing a grin. She still looked dazed, though she smiled slightly. Her mouth was slightly open, her breast heaving as she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip in a seductive motion he was pretty sure she didn't even realize she was making. "So, um, when are we going to...?" But he shook his head. "That's for me to know and you —" He couldn't resist a quick kiss on the end of her perfect little nose — "to find out in good time." CHAPTER THREE Lindy worked the next day as usual, although she was sure her feet never touched the ground once. Ethan was home...and they had a date for the reunion...and he was going to — they were going to — make love. Her honest nature balked at that one a little. After all, Ethan was going to teach her about sex. Their agreement had nothing to do with love. That thought slightly deflated the bubble of anticipation and happiness that threatened to burst right through her skin. Don't be silly, she lectured herself. Yesterday you were resigned to being the old maid librarian of the town. But yesterday, she realized, she'd thought Ethan had left Bell Gap forever. Her heart had been in storage most of her life, because she'd never wanted to give it to anyone. Except Ethan. The truth was a brutal blow. How long had she been dancing around it? Ignoring it? She'd probably have continued on in stoic avoidance mode until they carried her away in a pine box if he hadn't come back to Bell Gap —
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"Belinda, there's someone to see you." Her youngest assistant poked a head into her office, where she'd been looking over the children's librarian's wish list for the next fiscal year. "And he's totally hot." Lindy's pulse doubled. But before she could say anything, she heard a bellow — a loud, completely unlibrarylike masculine voice — calling her. "Lindy? Help! Get out here and save me." Hastily she rose and stepped into the area behind the desk. Ethan stood in front of the checkout counter, his hands folded gravely in front of him like a chastised child, while Miss Flora Giddings stood in front of him shaking one gnarled finger vigorously beneath his nose. "I knew you were that Wilde boy the minute I saw you step through the door. You were the scourge of my tomato patch once upon a time. Hope you've changed, because I've got a load of buckshot waiting to greet you if you haven't." Ethan was grinning, the engaging aw-shucks grin that made his dimples dance and his blue eyes twinkle. He gave Miss Giddings the full effect of his attention, and his blond hair, left just a little too long to be conventional, caught the light and gleamed like an angel's halo each time he nodded his head. Some angel. "Miss Giddings. I thought I had changed until you mentioned your tomatoes. Nobody in Bell Gap grows better tomatoes than you." He continued his smooth patter until Lindy was astonished to hear the grouchy old Giddings widow offering to give him a bag of tomatoes if he stopped by. She shook her head in reluctant amusement and Ethan raised his head then, distracted by the movement. Their eyes meet, caught, and held, and suddenly the room seemed too small, the air too thin, her clothes too restrictive on her oversensitive skin. "Lindy." Ethan could talk, which was beyond her for the moment. He glanced at his watch. "I came to walk you home when you get finished here." She checked the clock on the wall and almost sighed with relief. Eight o'clock. The library was open late on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and the day had seemed interminable. Then his words registered. He'd come to walk her home! She smiled at him. "I'll be just a minute." Five minutes later, she locked the door of the library behind them and smiled up at him. "It's nice of you to come down here." Ethan reached for her hand, sending a shock wave of want deep into her belly. His big hand engulfed hers, the skin tough and callused, so utterly male. "I didn't like the idea of you walking home in the dark." Lindy smiled with real amusement though her heart stuttered at the possessive note in his voice. "I've done it for years." "Yeah, but now I'm here and you don't have to." "It's pretty safe, Ethan. You're in Bell Gap, remember? People still sit on their front porches here." "Sorry. I haven't been anywhere where people look out for each other like they do here in a long time." "No?" She'd like to know more about where he'd been, what he'd done. "Where did you go? Nobody ever knew." Ethan slowed his pace. "I was in Brazil for about 18 months after I first left here. Hunting diamonds." "Ever find any?" He turned his head and looked down at her and she could just see the flash of his grin. "A few."
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"What's a few?" She sensed he was teasing her. "Enough to buy my own mine. Sold it last year for a nice profit." Lindy stopped walking. "Are you serious? Then you're — you're —" "Rich." His voice was definitely amused now. "Yeah. I could buy every house in Bell Gap and have money left over." She cleared her throat. "Bell Gap must seem pretty provincial to you now." "No." He looked down at her and his gaze was serious. "Bell Gap seems too good to be true. In the diamond mines, men's lives aren't worth a lot. Accidents are common. Fights are daily occurrences and more often than not, somebody winds up dead." She shivered at the flat recital. "New York is a walk in the park compared to diamond mining, but there's no community, no neighborly spirit. If you get mugged, I guarantee at least half the passersby will avert their eyes and keep right on going." "You live in New York now?" The only time she'd ever been to New York was with the high school band when they marched in Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. He nodded. "I've been there for about seven years. I have a firm that imports diamonds." Imports diamonds? He imports diamonds for a living. Well, no, she thought, not for a living. Because he was wealthy enough that he probably would never have to work again unless he wanted to. Their lives couldn't have been more different now. She couldn't begin to compete with the slick sophistication of the women he would be surrounded with every day. Her spirits, so high a moment ago, plunged into a dark abyss of disappointment. Then, as if he'd divined her thoughts, he said, "I dreamed about you for years, you know." Cautiously, she repeated, "About me?" He raised their linked hands and kissed her knuckles. "About you." She wanted to ask him to elaborate, but her innate reserve just wouldn't release her tongue. He probably hadn't meant it in the flattering way she hoped. Predictably, their walk took forever because Ethan was recognized repeatedly by both friends and former foes. "Wild Man!" she heard over and over as cronies from his hell-raising days caught up. "Remember when you sat on top of that telephone pole for three days to win that bet?" "Old man Truitt damn near took your head off with that baseball bat. Good thing you ducked or you'd be a memory now." "You wouldn't recognize Chrissy Lestin if you fell over her. She has five kids now — can you believe it?" They walked on. "So," said Lindy as the rows of houses gave way to a long shady street where enormous old oaks blocked the streetlights and shadows were thick and deep. "As you can see, this place doesn't change a whole lot. We've got Internet service providers but it's still the same little town that has a living crèche in the town square at Christmas."
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"I like it." He turned to face her, setting his hands at her waist. "Lindy, I know you think I'm different, but I'm still the same Wild Man you remember." "Ethan," she said breathlessly. "What?" He began to walk her backward. "You were always Ethan to me." A moment later she felt the rough bark of one of the solid trees at her back, halting her motion. Ethan kept coming, though, and slowly, slowly, he pressed his weight against her, trapping her between the tree and the unyielding strength of his big body. He lifted his hands and plunged his fingers through her hair, scattering pins and wrecking her tidy twist. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her arms, and once again he put his hands on her, though this time he lightly gripped her hips. "I thought about this all day." His voice was a low growl. "About how you made that little sound in your throat." He paused, so close that she could feel the sweet whisper of his breath against her cheek. "I want to hear that noise again." Then his mouth rocked onto hers and she couldn't think. All she could do was clutch the iron-hard muscles of his shoulders as his tongue invaded her mouth until her toes curled up in her summer sandals. His hands stayed at her hips as his mouth plundered hers, and she began to twist restlessly against him, feeling an almost desperate desire to have his hands on her aching, throbbing breasts. Last night he'd wanted to touch her there. Did he still? Tearing her mouth from his, she panted, "You can...touch me." He stilled, though he didn't move away. "I am touching you," he said in a low, gravelly tone. "I mean," her fingers brushed lightly over his, "where you touched me last night." He still didn't move. "Where's that?" He took her hand lightly. "You'll have to show me." CHAPTER FOUR Ethan looked down at Lindy. She seemed dazed by the sensual promise implicit in his low voice. She hesitated, and he registered the moment when she realized what he wanted. Slowly, she leaned her head back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes. Amusement floated at the edges of his consciousness. How a woman her age, who looked the way she did, could be so completely unused to a man's touch was beyond him. The men in this town must be blind. She raised the hand he still held, and his attention focused on her upturned face. Her eyelids fluttered, her lips were softly parted and her breasts rose and fell with the quickened pace of her breathing. It was all he could do not to haul her into his arms but he wanted her to feel safe with him. To trust him. Turning her hand over to guide his, slowly she pulled it up and in, between their bodies until finally, finally, she spread his palm flat over her breast. They both sighed, and he felt her body relax. "You want me to touch you here." Ethan lightly traced a circle around her breast, then brushed his thumb lazily over the sensitive peak. She inhaled sharply. "Yes."
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He brought his other hand up then, and while he continued those easy, desire-fueling caresses, he deftly unbuttoned her blouse. On the dark corner of the deserted street, he knew no one would see. He tugged it free of her skirt and spread it wide to expose her plain white bra. "Ah," he whispered. "Sweet. Do you know what I want to do?" "Wh-what?" "I want," he said, "to kiss you right here." He slipped his palms inside her bra and cupped her bare breasts, and she made a soft sound in the back of her throat. His big hands easily covered her and he loved the firmness of her small, taut breasts in his hands. But she had tensed again, and given her comments yesterday, he was pretty sure he knew why. Ethan leaned forward and lightly kissed her mouth as he rotated his palms over her breasts. "You are perfect," he whispered. He trailed his mouth down the line of her jaw and as he kissed her throat, he felt her swallow. "I'm not," she said in a low, dull voice. "I'm...flat." He couldn't help smiling and he wondered if she felt it against her skin. Gently, he cupped her breasts and lifted them free of her bra. "Flat," he said, "you definitely aren't." He kissed the base of her throat, then slid his mouth down the midline of her chest until his face was directly between the two warm mounds. "Shall I go left," he whispered, "or right? Your choice." He felt her body heave as she chuckled. "Some choice." But her voice was thready and she lifted one small hand and laid it against the right side of his face. He willingly moved to the left, licking a steady path around her, slowly decreasing the circle until he closed his mouth over her nipple. Lindy arched against him as he drew on her gently, suckling and tonguing the turgid peak. Her hands speared into his hair and she held him against her. God, he wanted her. For one insane instant, he actually considered dragging her around behind the big old tree, and the very notion was enough to draw him up short. Her first time was going to be somewhere private and comfortable. Somewhere she could shed her inhibitions, let down her hair, and be the woman he was sure lurked beneath her demure, buttoned-down façade. With genuine regret and a minor adjustment of the uncomfortable fit of his pants, he slowly drew his mouth from her, carefully pulling her bra into place and rebuttoning her blouse. He left it untucked. With her hair down, no one could see much of her upper torso anyway. Lindy stood still and pliant. She'd opened her eyes when he'd stopped kissing her, and her gaze was wide and dark in the shadow of the tree. "You didn't have to stop," she said. "Yes," he said positively, "I did. Or you'd be up against that tree with your legs wrapped around my waist." Her eyes widened in shock. "Come on," he said, taking her hand again. "Let's go watch old movies and neck." Lindy laughed and the sound was music to his ears. "Sounds like a plan." He courted her. That, she decided, was the only word for it. On Wednesday, a ridiculously large bouquet of delicate, fragrant freesia arrived at the library for her in the morning. The tiny card tucked among them read: These reminded me of you. That was it. He strode in again just before closing.
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At the front desk, Lindy forced herself to greet him with the same calm friendliness she showed to the rest of the world. "Hello. Thank you for the flowers." She allowed herself to smile at him with just a shade of intimacy. Last night, they'd made popcorn and watched movies, and he'd talked about his business. She would have welcomed more of his dizzying kisses but he'd been surprisingly restrained, leaving her at 11:00 with only one last kiss at the door. "You're welcome." Before she fathomed his intent, Ethan reached for her chin, leaned forward and touched his lips to hers in a brief kiss. One of the other librarians giggled, and Lindy shot him a look that promised discussion later. "It's five o'clock," she announced. She followed the last patrons to the door and locked it behind them. "See you in the morning," she said to her staff as everyone gathered their things and headed for the back door they normally used. After a flurry of farewells, everyone was off. Lindy turned to Ethan, who stood patiently behind her. "What was that?" she demanded. "What?" His tone was pure innocence. The same tone he'd used when the principal had accused him of putting tadpoles in the faculty lounge water cooler. "You know what," she said, narrowing her eyes. "That kiss." "Too short," he pronounced. "How about we try it again and triple the contact?" "Not here," she said immediately. "Why not?" "Because," she said, "I am not planning to provide this town with tomorrow's gossip." "Lindy —" his tone was patient "— I think they've seen people kissing before." "Yes, but they haven't seen me kissing before." Was she crazy, telling the object of her whole life's desire that she didn't want to kiss him? "Good." The single word rang with satisfaction. "May I hold your hand?" She sighed. "Of course." "So I take it you have held hands in public before?" He twined her fingers with his and they started walking. "No," she said, "but there's a big difference between kissing and holding hands." His eyebrows rose. "I thought you were engaged." "I was." And this really wasn't a topic she wanted to discuss. But if she knew Ethan — and she most certainly did — he'd hound her until she told him what he wanted to know. "His name is Ira Morris and he's a minister. He came here from Philadelphia five years ago when Reverend Quinn at First Presbyterian retired." "A minister." "If you laugh, I'll hit you." He lifted a hand to his face and smoothed away his smile. "Not laughing. Honest. Tell me the rest."
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"We dated for two years and he asked me to marry him." "Lin?" When she paused, he asked, "If you dated this guy for two years and you know for sure he's not gay, how come you two never got naked together?" "I've asked myself that a million times." She sighed. "I don't think he ever was interested in me — attractedinterested, I mean. I think he thought I'd make a perfect pastor's wife." "He didn't know you very well, then." She should have been insulted but the comment actually warmed her. "The wedding was set for about a year away but three months before it, I walked into his apartment unannounced one day and caught him and Mandy in the act." Funny how she didn't mind telling Ethan this. "Actually," she said, "they looked pretty silly. He's only about two inches taller than me, and skinny. Mandy Briggs is...an Amazon." "So I can't even go beat the tar out of this guy because he's smaller than me." Ethan's voice didn't hold a trace of amusement. Startled, she glanced up at his set face. "No, but I appreciate the thought," she said lightly, putting her other hand on his arm. Then she realized the muscles were rigid beneath her fingertips. "Ethan, it happened almost three years ago. It's old history." "He hurt you." His low voice carried a savage undertone. "Only for a little while," she said. "I don't think I really loved him or it would still hurt. Now I'm just thankful Mandy got stuck with him instead of me." She shook his arm lightly. "Let's not talk about him anymore. He's not important." They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her side, Ethan's presence felt brooding and dark, unlike last night when she'd felt so...connected to him. It was a lonely feeling, and she didn't like it. On the sidewalk in front of their houses, he slowed to a halt. She stared up at him silently, unsure of how to react to his strange mood. "Lindy," he said. "Ethan." She smiled, trying for lightness. "I don't want to hurt you." Startled, she said, "You haven't." "I can't stay. You know that." "It never occurred to me that you would." That was true. She had known from the moment she'd seen him getting out of his car on Monday that he was only visiting. And she wasn't going to think about it until after he was gone. Then she'd have the rest of her life to cry. "I want you." He pulled her around to face him and drew her against him. "I know." She put her hands up to each side of his face. "Kiss me." "Inside." His voice was hoarse. "I'll kiss you inside." He paused, and she felt his broad chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. "We're not stopping with kisses tonight, Lin."
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CHAPTER FIVE Ethan scooped Lindy into his arms. He sought her mouth with his, and she willingly wrapped her arms around his shoulders and returned his deep kisses. She felt him fumble with the latch on the gate outside his house, then they were through and he was setting her down on the doorstep. His mouth never left hers as he fished in his pocket, but when he finally came up with the house key, he tore himself away. "Sorry," he said. "Needed a free hand to find that key." "That's all right. It's probably bad luck to carry a woman over the threshold if she's not a bride." The moment the words left her mouth, she was sorry. They made her sound pathetic. But Ethan didn't appear to notice. He unlocked the door and ushered her in, flicking on low lights as he went. Lindy followed behind him. His home hadn't changed much from the days his mother had lived here, except that there was a sterile feel to the place now. She knew he'd had someone in to clean regularly, but it still seemed kind of sad, as if the house were waiting for a family again. He stopped in the kitchen and opened a cupboard, grabbing two wineglasses, then got a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator and led her back down the hall. "Champagne?" she asked. "Is there something to celebrate?" "You could look at it that way." He paused outside the closed door of the bedroom that once had been his. Even though she knew his mother had eventually turned it into a generic guest bedroom, she supposed he'd still feel most comfortable there. Then Ethan opened the door and urged her forward. He flicked on a lamp just inside the door and Lindy gasped. The room was filled with flowers. He set down the wine and walked around the small space, lighting a variety of candles, then came back to her and turned off the lamp, leaving them in the warm, flickering light of the tiny flames. She felt tears sting behind her eyelids. Now she knew why she'd waited. Every girl should have a first sexual experience like this. "Oh, Ethan," she breathed, "thank you." "I haven't done anything yet." He grinned at her, and she melted. Tugging on her hand, he pulled her into his arms. "You have on too many clothes." "So do you," she whispered. Today she'd worn a simple sundress that buttoned down the front. It was quick work for Ethan to unbutton it and push it off her shoulders, leaving her standing before him in her bra and panties. He took her glasses, as well, setting them atop the dresser. She fought the urge to cover herself with her arms, and slowly lifted her hands to his knit shirt, opening the few buttons and pulling it free of his pants. When the backs of her hands brushed against his bare stomach, he inhaled sharply. "How about if I help a little?" In just a moment, he stood before her in nothing but a pair of snug-fitting navy briefs. He was already aroused and the stretchy front of the fabric outlined the hard ridge of flesh beneath. Lindy felt her breath come faster. Her whole body was warm and as he reached out and drew her to him, she fitted herself against him as closely as she could with her head cushioned on his firm, muscled chest. He reached up and took down her hair, running his fingers through it until it rippled around them. For a long, sweet moment, he simply held her, his big hands gently stroking up and down her back.
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Finally, she couldn't stand it any longer. Turning her face slightly, she nuzzled his throat, actually daring to lick him there, where his pulse beat fast and strong. Ethan groaned. She felt him unhook the clasp of her bra with one hand and then he stepped back, tossing it away and kneeling to strip away her panties. She froze. His face was inches away from her...her...and then she jumped as he blew a stream of hot breath through the nest of curls there. She put her hands down to draw him up to her, but he leaned slightly forward and she felt his tongue touch her intimately and she was so shocked she forgot what she'd been about to do. "Ethan," she gasped. "Let me," he murmured, and his breath was a caress on her sensitive flesh. He put his hands on the insides of her thighs and pressed lightly until she complied, widening her stance a little. And then he kissed her. There. On the very spot that was throbbing and needy and — "Oh, God." She clutched at his shoulders as his mouth grew bolder. Then her hands were in his hair, pressing him closer and closer as he used his tongue in ways she had never quite realized a tongue could be used. She cried out, and as if it were a sign, he withdrew from her and rose to his feet, lifting her easily and carrying her across the room to the bed, where he'd already pulled back the sheets. Gently, as if she were made of glass, he laid her down. Then, still standing beside her, he put his thumbs in the elastic of his briefs and pulled them down and off. He was huge. Dark and silky-looking, and without thinking she raised her hand and dreamily encircled him. He groaned, and his hand came around to cover hers. "Like this," he whispered, guiding her into a steady rhythm. But she'd barely begun when he pulled her wrist away. "Sorry." His grin was crooked. "If I let you do that, you're going to stay a virgin longer than you'd like." He turned away for a moment and she watched as he rolled protection into place, then he lowered himself onto her, using his knees to spread her legs. He took her wrists and anchored them both above her head. She felt helpless and exposed, and unbelievably aroused. She arched against him, feeling him hard and ready against her belly, but he only laughed. "Not yet, baby. Not yet." He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth and she nearly came off the bed at the intense sensation that shot straight from her breast to her womb. "Ethan, please...please..." She knew exactly what she was pleading for, and when he raised his hips and she felt him fall heavily between her legs, she opened her thighs wide and wriggled until she felt the smooth head pushing at her. "Now," she panted. "Easy, baby. We have all —" "No. Now!" Driving her heels into the bed, she shoved firmly upward, and with shocking ease, she suddenly felt him fill her. She felt a pinching discomfort for a moment, but she repeated her motion and it was gone, swept away in the wondrous moment of becoming one with the man she loved. "Lin — are you all right?" She understood his anxious tone and he propped himself on his elbows to study her face. "I'm fine," she said, drinking in every second of his lovemaking. She met his blue eyes and smiled invitingly. "Will you please move?" "Your wish is my command." He grinned, that familiar cocky grin that always made her heart turn over, and as he lowered his head and began to kiss her, he established a smooth easy rhythm with his hips, rocking the bed beneath them. She felt an unfamiliar tension rising, and she lifted herself to meet his thrusts as he increased his speed, almost sobbing as each impact shot her higher, tighter, until she felt like a drawn bow —
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And then the tension burst into exquisite circles of pleasure that jolted her body spasmodically. She felt him stiffen and arch against her, pumping himself deep within her body, and for one insane instant, she was sorry he'd remembered to use birth control. When the last spasm had shaken them and he lay heavily over her, his head on the pillow beside hers, she turned her head and kissed him. "Thank you." "No," he said in a thick, slow voice, "thank you. I've never felt...like that before." She was so touched, tears came to her eyes and she closed them. Ethan heaved himself up and slid to her side, gathering her into his arms, idly playing with her hair. "What now?" she asked. Then a huge yawn overtook her. "Nap," he said. "Then...we start all over again." CHAPTER SIX Ethan walked Lindy to work a little early on Saturday morning. She liked to get in and get organized before the rest of the library employees arrived. Especially today, since she'd taken yesterday off and spent the entire lazy day making love with Ethan until he had objected that he would make her sore, tossed her in the shower, and taken her out to dinner in a neighboring town. She unlocked the door and got the whole way into her office before she realized he was still close on her heels. "I'll see you this evening," she said, turning and stretching on tiptoe for a kiss. "Umm." He caught her against him with purposeful hands when she would have stepped back, and the kiss he gave her didn't feel in the least like a goodbye kiss. "Ethan," she said warningly. "I have to get to work." "It's still early," he said with an innocent smile. But she read his intent in his eyes and in a flash she wheeled and dashed around her desk. He stalked around the desk as Lindy tried to keep the furniture between them, a purposeful gleam in his eye. "Ethan! We can't —" "Oh, yeah." His voice was a purr as he cornered her in front of the computer desk. "We can. In fact, I seem to remember we're getting pretty damned good at it." "But...not here!" Her voice rose in desperation as he unbuttoned her blouse with surprising dexterity in his big fingers. He slipped his palms inside the opened front of her blouse, cupping her breasts through the lacy camisole and rubbing his thumbs insistently back and forth, back and forth over her nipples. Lightning bolts of arousal shot through her and she felt herself softening, moistening, as butterflies fluttered deep in her womb. Desperately, she caught his wrists with her hands, but he was far too strong for her to have any impact. He thrust his hips forward, and she moaned as the hard evidence of his desire settled into the notch of her thighs. "Sh-h-h." He was laughing as he set his mouth over hers, muffling the sounds she couldn't hold back. One hand withdrew from her blouse and grabbed fistfuls of her skirt, dragging it out of the way. His hand slipped
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surely down over the smooth plane of her belly, beneath her tiny panties and her knees went weak as he delved into the warm cove between her legs. She felt him probing, spreading her own moisture over her throbbing flesh and she whimpered beneath his mouth, then abruptly bucked in his arms as one long finger slid smooth and deep inside her. His thumb worried the pouting bud of her desire, pressing and massaging relentlessly as she writhed against him, impaled on that encroaching finger. Her whole being was focused on the sensations he created. She felt herself hurtling forward, faster and faster, her hips moving wildly against his hand. And then she flew apart. Her moan rose into a ragged scream, which he swallowed while she heaved and quivered with the force of the contractions cascading through her. While she still shook in the grip of her own ecstasy, he slipped his hand free. Dimly, she felt him fumbling with the fastening of his pants and she reached down to help him, her small fingers delving into his briefs and curling around the hard, silky flesh she found there. She lifted him free and as she did, she realized he was shaking. "Oh, God," he whispered, fumbling with the small packet he'd taken from his pocket, and she wasn't sure if it was a curse or a prayer. "Hurry. Take me." With frantic motions he tugged aside the leg of her panties and positioned himself. Lindy spread her legs as he pushed farther between her thighs, and then they both sucked in a breath of shocking pleasure as he thrust his hips forward, pushing her up and back onto the desk as he filled her with one deep stroke. She lay back, feeling him pull her buttocks off the desk and willingly she wrapped her legs around his waist as he came over her, supporting himself on his elbows. Immediately, he began a forceful pounding rhythm, and as he drove home within her again and again, she felt the sweet tension hurling her up and over the edge a second time. Ethan felt it, too, and with a series of deep, wrenching groans, he emptied himself within her as his body slowly stilled. She clutched his shoulders tightly, wishing the moment didn't have to end. Wishing he wouldn't leave. Wishing he'd marry her and take her with him. Oh, God, she hadn't even let herself think it before. Ethan and marry didn't belong in the same sentence. Except to her, they only belonged in a sentence together — "Belinda? Are you in there? I need a signature on this requisition." The strident female voice was a jarring peal of reality. Lindy jumped, her thoughts completely scattered, but she was unable to move, pinned by the utterly relaxed weight of Ethan's sizable body. "Ethan!" She pushed at his shoulders. "Let me up!" He only grinned at her. "How much will you pay me?" "You are an oversexed idiot." She did her best to glare at him. Almost frantic to get to the door before it opened and someone caught them, she wriggled and squirmed. "I'll be there in a minute," she called, hoping her voice didn't sound as husky and different to her staff as it did to her own ears. Ethan pushed himself backward, slowly disengaging their bodies. Reaching behind her head, he tugged free a handful of tissues and tenderly began to wipe away the slippery moisture between her thighs. She made a sound of shocked protest and tried to get away, but he held her in place with his body until he had gently pulled her panties into place again. Lindy felt her face flame as he stepped back and lifted her to her feet. He cleaned up and restored his own clothing to order, then looked up at her, and his face creased in the familiar grin she couldn't resist. "It's a little late to be blushing," he told her.
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"I can't help it," she whispered in a fierce undertone. "I'm not — I don't do things like this." Ethan only smiled. "You do now." But there was something watchful in the depths of his piercing blue eyes. A surprising little imp of irritation reared its head. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one who will have to stay and face the gossip after you leave." His smile slowly died, and his eyes grew darker and hard to read. "You don't have to stay, either, you know." They both were silent, letting the words hang uncomfortably in the air. "I need to get out front," she told him, wishing they had time to finish this conversation. Suddenly he seemed as distant as the moon. What did he mean by that remark? "Stay here until I tell you it's okay to sneak out," she finally said as she reached for the doorknob. *** You don't have to stay, either. Ethan cursed his impulsive tongue as he fastened his cufflinks and reached for the black silk tie that matched his shirt and suit that evening. He'd practically forgotten about the damned reunion until she'd reminded him this morning. The memory of the way she'd hustled him out the back door of the library still rankled. It annoyed him that she didn't want people talking about them. Did she really only want him for a little clandestine sex? Well, hell. He supposed the bottom line was yes. She'd told him that first evening what she wanted from him. And he'd given it to her. But what he hadn't counted on was giving her his heart. His fingers stilled on the half-knotted silk. All right, so you love her. It doesn't change anything. He hadn't given her his heart this week. No, he'd loved her for a very long time — the shy, quiet beauty next door who'd seen past the bad boy persona and liked him for himself. He'd been convinced she would never welcome a declaration of his feelings, and he hadn't been secure enough back in high school to risk rejection. So he'd left. Since then, there had been a lot of women, but not a single one them had ever gotten beneath his skin. Lindy had always been in the back of his mind. The question was, what was he going to do about her now? He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to marry her. He took a deep breath. "I want to marry her," he said aloud. But...would she even consider the idea? In the past few days, he'd begun to think she must have some feelings for him. Could she have responded so totally to his lovemaking if she didn't? Did she love him? Could she love him? And if she did, how would she react if he asked her to marry him and leave Bell Gap with him forever. She seemed so very tied to the little town, to their memories. But she needed a fresh start. He wanted to take her around the world, share new places with her, shower her with pretty things. He knew she didn't consider herself very attractive and it drove him crazy. She'd been quiet and studious in high school, sure, but her jerk-off fiancé's treatment must have undermined her confidence more deeply than she wanted anyone to know. If he told her he loved her, asked her to marry him, she'd think he was lying. Teasing her.
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Maybe he'd better start small and work up to it. Ask her to visit him, or to take a trip with him first. Let her see the woman she could be. Then maybe she'd believe he'd been waiting for her for almost half of their 28 years. CHAPTER SEVEN Lindy was ready, as he knew she'd be, when Ethan went over to pick her up for the reunion. He saw her shadow fall across the living room window as she came toward the door in answer to his knock. But when the door opened, a stranger stood before him. He stared. He tried not to keep his mouth from falling open. "Ethan?" The vision reached out a hand and touched his arm. "Are you all right?" "Yeah, yeah, I'm, uh, fine." He stepped into the house and turned immediately to survey her. "What'd you do to yourself?" Her face fell. "I felt like a change, so I had a makeover and bought a new dress. If you don't think it looks right, I'll —" "Wait!" He grabbed her elbow as she turned away. "I'm sorry. It looks right. Believe me, baby, it looks very right. You just surprised me, that's all. I thought someone had kidnapped my Lindy and left a sex kitten in her place." He held her still as he looked at her again. She wore a dress — and what a dress it was — of some kind of slinky black fabric that clung to her wand-slender body. Her shoulders were bared and her bosom above the strapless top looked as though she might have bought one of those push-up bras. Whatever. Who cared? He liked it. Her legs looked a mile long in heels that brought the top of her head nearly to his eye level, and her face looked like a finely painted doll's. Except for the eyes. Shadowed and mysterious, they — hey! She wasn't wearing her glasses. "Contacts?" he asked. She nodded. "I can't wear them all day, but they'll be fine for tonight." The motion of her head made her hair slither and bounce over her shoulders, and he lifted one finger and touched a curl. She'd curled it somehow, and her waist-length hair waved and shimmered with a life of its own. "My God," he said reverently. "You are beautiful. I feel like I should be giving you jewels or something." If she married him, he'd give her jewels like she couldn't even imagine. She laughed, and turned to the table to get a tiny black purse. "I'll let you off the hook this one time." He took her out and handed her into his little sports car. He hardly ever drove in New York, and it had been pure pleasure to come down here in his very own car. They didn't talk much on the way to the fraternal club where the reunion was being held. As he helped her out of the car, she smiled up at him and he couldn't resist leaning forward and touching his lips to hers. "I can hardly wait to get you out of that dress later." "I can hardly wait for you to get me out of this dress later," she said. "Lindy, I...I have to leave tomorrow." Suddenly it was important that he get something nailed down between them. "I want you to come with me."
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Her eyes changed, became carefully blank, and her heart-shaped face didn't change expression by one single muscle. "To New York?" "Yeah, to start with," he said, talking fast to cover the nerves. "And then after I get a few arrangements made, get you settled in my place, I thought maybe we could sneak over to Paris for a week. What do you think?" She hesitated. He held his breath. Then...she shook her head. And his heart dropped to the ground and shattered. "Ethan," she said, "I'm just not that kind of girl. I'd be miserable in New York. Paris would be fun, but...I couldn't possibly take off from the library for that long. And people would talk —" "Oh, I forgot," he said, furious with her and with himself, as well. "I'm good enough to —" he used a crude basic word that made her flinch "— but not to be seen with. What the hell are you doing here with me tonight?" There was a moment of sheer, ut ter silence. Finally, Lindy spoke. Her voice was soft and pleading and there were tears in her eyes. "Ethan, don't." She took his face in her hands. "Let's not spoil this evening. For either one of us. Let us just have one more night of magic. We can talk later. As much as you want." He stood rigid beneath her touch for one long moment. Then resignation set in. He'd given it a shot. He'd been turned down. He might as well take what crumbs she'd throw him tonight and leave without making either one of them any more uncomfortable than they already were. Slowly, he turned his head into her palm and kissed her there. "All right." "Thank you," she whispered. She closed her eyes and he realized she'd expected him to storm off. Instead, he took her hand and led her into the reunion. *** Inside the big hall, they got exactly the reaction she'd expected. People approached with outstretched hands. They did a double take when they realized she was Belinda the Librarian. They did another one when they recognized her escort. She pinned on a smile and bit the inside of her lip, holding the pain away, determined not to ruin this one last evening with Ethan. One small highlight of the evening occurred when she spotted Mandy Briggs Morris and her minister, both openly staring at them. She waggled her fingers at them, unable to resist, then giggled into Ethan's shoulder when they both turned away as if they'd been caught cheating again. Ethan turned his head and saw the retreat, recognized Mandy, and started across the room. Lindy had to grab his arm and dig in her heels to hold him back. "Trust me," she said, "if you just grab my butt on the dance floor once, my payback will be complete. He'll spend the rest of his rotten marriage wondering what I'm like in bed." "Too hot for a rat like that." He stopped and put an arm around her, leaned down to kiss her ear. "And he'll never find out because I will kill him if he even tries to talk to you."
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She didn't point out that killing the Reverend would require Ethan to stay in Bell Gap. He knew that wasn't happening and so did she. Her heart squeezed painfully. If only he'd said he loved her. She wouldn't even hold out for marriage. But she'd spoken the truth: she would be miserable in New York with him, knowing that all she was a temporary fling. Paris, the city of lovers, was unthinkable. Without love, continuing a relationship with him was out of the question, no matter what her heart said. They ate dinner with several of Ethan's old football buddies and their wives, many of whom were from out of town now, too, so the conversation wasn't as awkward as she'd feared. When it came time for the class officers to give out those stupid awards, her name was called, for "Most Changed." They danced. She fit in his arms, followed his lead as if they'd been together for years. She rested her head on his shoulder; he kissed her temple. And her heart broke completely in half. Oh, Ethan. Why couldn't you have loved me? CHAPTER EIGHT Ethan was gone when Lindy woke in the morning. She'd slept in his arms through the night, waking once to find him already inside her, her leg draped over his thigh, a furnace of heat against her back as he slowly thrust, holding her to him with a hand low on her belly. He'd woken her a second time near dawn, rolling to his back and pulling her astride him, palming her breasts and urging her to ride him in a rough, hoarse voice that set fire to her excitement and sent them both hurtling into a powerful climax. Afterward, he'd stroked her hair as she lay on his chest. Then...she must have dozed off again. And while she slept, he'd slipped away. Lindy rolled over and looked at the clock. Ten a.m. on Sunday. Was there really any reason to get out of bed today? She rolled over again and buried her face in the pillow as the sobs came. *** Monday. Lindy slammed her hand down on the alarm and dragged herself out of bed. She had to get ready for work. Work. It was all she had left. As she dressed and ate, then walked to work, the future unwound itself before her like a black-and-white movie, a series of interminable scenes unfolding behind her desk at the library. And something within her snapped. She couldn't do it. She just couldn't resign herself to being Belinda the Librarian for the rest of her days. Not after she'd been Lindy the Sex Kitten, not after she'd realized how much she needed Ethan Wilde in her life and her heart. Half of that was true right now. But he was gone from her life, unless she took her future in both hands and made it happen. He'd wanted her to come with him. But she'd never imagined herself leaving Bell Gap, never imagined living somewhere else. It wasn't even that she feared a change so much as it was that she simply had never believed that she could make a change. But now, with Ethan gone, she saw how empty the little town was. Bell Gap was now Somewhere Else. Because it wasn't where Ethan was.
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So he didn't love her? So what? Her choices were to stay here and let him leave her forever, or to go with him and enjoy the time they had together. So what if people talked when she came back home one day? So what if she no longer had a position at the library? She'd have memories. And she'd have the satisfaction of looking at herself in the mirror and knowing she'd tried. If she didn't take this one chance, she'd regret it for the rest of her life. If she went to him, with him, at least she'd have that time. And in that time, she'd let him know she loved him. Miracles happened. Maybe his heart would admit her someday. Turning on her heel, she walked away from the library and headed for the travel office on the square. Later the same day, the chairman of the board stomped into the library. Lindy met him in front of the checkout desk. He didn't look happy. "I'm afraid I won't be able to give you a recommendation, Belinda, if you don't give us at least two weeks' notice. It won't be easy to replace you." "That's all right. I understand. But I'm leaving today, anyway." "This is terribly irresponsible —" The thin, balding board president began to sputter, but Lindy was no longer listening. Her attention was on the door, where a tall, broad-shouldered man with shining hair and intense blue eyes had just come in. Without giving herself time to think, Lindy launched herself at Ethan. He caught her as he had one week before. She threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his as a swell of whispers and murmurs filled the library behind them. His kiss felt like heaven. It felt like...she was coming home. "Ethan! What —" She had to stop and clear her throat, which was threatening to close up. "What are you doing here?" "I came to see you," he said. "But I was coming to you. In New York." She dug her ticket out of her pocket and waved it beneath his nose. "Ethan —" "Lindy —" he said at the same time. "You first," he said. "Me first," she said. They looked at each other, then shared a moment of awkward laughter. Then the laughter died away. "The thing is," she said, "that I want to be with you. I'm quitting the library. I'll follow you to New York or Paris or wherever you want to go, and I'll stay with you as long as you'll let me. I love you, Ethan. I'd rather be with you every day that I can and maybe be lonely someday down the road than stay here in Bell Gap without you. I want memories. And there's no reason not to make them just because you don't care as much." She paused, eyeing his reaction, but he hadn't moved. "There. I guess I'm done." "All right," he said. "My turn." There was an odd gleam in his eyes that she didn't trust. Sort of like when they'd been in sixth grade and he'd offered to push her on the swing, then walked around in front and enjoyed the view while she'd tried desperately to keep her skirt from billowing up around her neck. "When I was a kid," he began, "there was the cutest little girl living next door. And we were friends. In high school, she got even cuter. But she was really, really smart, and she didn't seem impressed by any of my escapades. She intimidated the hell out of me, if you want the truth. And when I left town, she was getting ready to go to college and my leaving didn't seem to matter to her one little bit."
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He stopped then, and reached up to blot a tear that rolled down her cheek. "Even though I didn't see her for years, except for one time at my mother's funeral when she was a godsend, I never forgot her. She was in my heart for good. Pissed off a lot of other women, let me tell you." Lindy made a choked sound, half laugh and half sob. "So when I got this invitation to a reunion, I decided to come back and see if she was still around. And she was." He dropped his forehead against hers and looked into her eyes. "And I loved her more than ever and I hoped she loved me. But I was afraid to tell her how I felt, or to ask her to marry me, so I thought I'd start small, invite her to come share my world for a while." He closed his eyes briefly. "And when she said no, she broke my heart." He released Lindy and stepped back. "And I acted stupid and left, and almost lost her. But then I realized I had to come back and tell her everything." He pulled a small white box wrapped with silver ribbon from his pocket and dropped to one knee. Behind them, there was an audible gasp. Other than that single sound, the library was dead quiet. "I love you, Lindy Melton," Ethan said. "Will you honor me with your hand in marriage?" "I would be honored to be your wife," she said. She sat daintily on his knee as he snapped the ring box open, and he slid the exquisite square-cut diamond onto her finger. And behind them, a woman's voice said, "How come you never did that for me, Melvin?" *** Two hours later, they were back where they'd started, in Ethan's bed. "I think I'd like to keep a place here in Bell Gap," he said. "So that our children will have a sense of where we grew up." Lindy choked on her champagne. "Children? Did I miss a conversation somewhere?" Ethan decided he might as well just say it. Look where thinking things through had gotten him the last time. "I know we haven't talked about it, but I would really, really like you to have my babies. Even one would do." To his relief, she sent him a brilliant smile. "How about we agree to put a cap on it at four, with either party allowed to halt the procreation at any time after the first one makes us or breaks us?" "Four. That's a good number." He kissed her. "I'm glad you want children." Her eyes narrowed. "Why?" "Because," he said, "Sunday morning, we didn't use anything. Either time." "You sneak," she said. "I had to have a backup plan," he defended himself. "I figured if I got you pregnant, you'd have to marry me. And sooner or later, you'd see what a prize I am and fall in love with me." "I already loved you," she reminded him. "You were just too dumb to know it."
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"And you were too dumb to show it," he countered. She opened her mouth but before she could speak again, he rolled her with him across the bed, ending with her beneath him. He settled himself snugly in the place that fit him so perfectly, and she wrapped her legs around his hips to hold him fast. Threading his fingers through hers, he dropped his head and sought her lips. "I love you, Lindy. And I promise to show it every day for the rest of our lives." And to prove he was serious, he began immediately.
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THE WEDDING EXPERT by Darcy Maguire Tessa Knightly has just returned to Sydney to start a business as a wedding proposal planner. Imagine her shock when one of the first men to ask for her advice on how to propose to his girlfriend is Justin Pearce, the man who broke Tessa's heart eight years ago! Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE Justin paused outside the lavishly decorated shop-front, staring dully at the white lace, the flowers and the embossed stationery. He didn’t need this. He was rich, successful, and drove one of the best cars on the road. He clenched his jaw. So why couldn’t he find the right words to convince one perfect woman to share her life with him? He ran a hand through his hair. Why was this relationship stuff so hard? Someone should make it straightforward...write down the criteria and boom, along she comes, ready, willing and perfect. So he’d mucked up proposing to his last girlfriend, Laura. So he may have mentioned the old ball and chain, and that she’d won — she’d got him to propose, finally. And that she’d done what no woman out of the dozens he’d dated had done — she was the death toll to his bachelor days. None of which, he had to admit, went down too well. Which was probably why she’d dumped him and he’d had to find Victoria. Straight back on the horse was his motto. And Victoria Feathersham was the best of the breed. Long legged, smooth skinned, elegant and beautiful. Perfect. He stared up at the sign. But a proposal planner? If anyone other than his sister had suggested professional assistance, he would have laughed them out the door, but his sister, Janice, knew him better than anyone. And if she had finally come round to him marrying Victoria by offering this consultation to him — there was no way he was passing it up. Especially when Janice had set the whole thing up for him. There was nothing for him to do but show up and learn. Easy. Justin pushed open the door and strode inside. He’d get this proposal business under control, just like he had everything else in his life under control. It’d be easy. And then he’d have it all — the perfect career, the perfect portfolio, the perfect woman — the perfect life. He shifted uneasily. It was what he wanted. He’d have everything. At least something like what his friends had. What his sister had. To share your life with someone. So he was going about it using his head instead of relying on all that heart nonsense. It didn’t mean he was going to end up with anything less…though proposing to Laura had been a mistake. Victoria and he were on the same wavelength, both looking at life realistically. And there was nothing wrong with it at all. Despite what his sister said. Justin sighed. Love wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be anyhow. The sensor chimed the wedding march somewhere out back, and a small graying woman appeared at the receptionist desk. “Proposals or weddings?” Justin swallowed hard, looking past the trestles, littered with albums, spread wide with lavish photos of weddings. He ignored the lurch deep in his gut. “I have an appointment to see the proposal planner.” “Ah, so you’re the mystery man. Go right through.” He followed the hallway to the open doorway.
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A woman sat on a cream white lounge nestled to one side of the office. She was leaning over, reaching for something she must have dropped. He wasn’t in the market anymore, but cripes... Justin tilted his head. From this angle, the woman had quite a few things going for her. She was lithe and honey-blonde and her short gray skirt afforded him a fine view of her long creamy-smooth legs. The skirt also sat tight enough on her hips to feed his mind as to the curves that lay beneath the clothes. She turned, and her green eyes met his with the force of a punch to the stomach. It had been years...but he could never forget. Her name burst from his lips. “Tessa.” She stared up at him, as though she was finding it difficult just to breathe. “Justin.” She shook her head slowly. The urge to turn on his heel and run was about as strong as his desire to sweep her into his arms and kiss away the years. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and steadied himself, willing his heart to slow. He was older now, much older. There was no way she was going to weave her spell over him now. Justin had got over all that love stuff years ago. He wasn’t going to fall into it again. Sure, it had been incredible while it lasted, but it hurt like hell to leave it behind. Too much. He straightened. And he wasn’t about to go through that again. He stared at his shoes. This was a surprise and a half...a chance meeting — he’d only have to keep it together for a few minutes, then he’d escape. No drama, he admonished himself. “How are you, Tess?” he asked stiffly, scanning the room and wishing like crazy that the planner would turn up and end this nightmare. He didn’t want to be here with her. Okay, his body did, very much. But the rest of him would rather keep the past in the past. She moved to the edge of her seat but didn’t get up. “I’m fine now. Thank you very much. What are you doing here?” Her voice was still as whisper soft and gentle as he remembered, but her green eyes stabbed into his very soul.... He tossed some words around in his head, but thought better of a clever answer. There was no denying why he was here and there was no reason at all to lie to her or himself. “I’m getting some advice on how to propose.” She arched an eyebrow, shooting him a look of incredulity. “You’re proposing to someone?” “Yes.” And for the life of him, he couldn’t work out why it didn’t feel better saying it. Victoria was his society queen, his logical match. They’d worked it out together — what they could give each other, how their life would be, where they'd be in five years, ten.... So they didn't exactly love each other, so what? It didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. “To Victoria Feathersham.” “Oh.” “What do you mean oh?” he challenged. Victoria was a fine woman with a reputation and a social standing that no self-respecting businessman would scoff at. She was perfect, from her meticulously styled platinum blond hair to her manicured toenails. “I mean —” Tessa shifted back on her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, which only served to accentuate her breasts “— I find it surprising that you’d be marrying at all.” Justin let his gaze slide over her. She’d grown up, all right, in all the right places... “And are you married?”
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She set her chin in a stubborn line. “I don’t see that’s any of your business.” Justin’s blood heated, his mind fighting the idea that another man held her close at night. “Will you answer the damned question?” She shrugged. “No.” “No, you won’t answer my question or no, you’re not married?” “Pick one.” She glared at him, raising her chin. He looked toward the door again, rather than down into her eyes. It was too easy to lose himself in the way her eyes glimmered with yesterday’s promises. What was keeping the damned planner! “What are you doing here?” She took a deep, slow breath. “Justin. Your appointment is with me. I am the proposal planner.” CHAPTER TWO What twist of fate had Justin Pearce walking back into her life? She always felt he would, dreamed he would, hoped that he would, so she could tell him exactly where to shove his charm and good looks. Tessa had almost died on the spot when she saw him. Her heart was still pounding and her body shaking. She would have liked nothing better than to get to her feet and kick the guy out the door...and she would have, if her legs would have held her up. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him. He was just as she remembered, as her tortured dreams reminded her often, although his tall frame had filled out — he wasn't the lanky boy that had swept her off her feet years ago. His Italian genes had really come to the fore, too, and he was oozing Mediterranean charm. He stood frozen to the spot, staring at her as though he couldn't quite pull himself together. Which was strange in itself — Justin Pearce could always handle anything that came his way. Tessa Knightly allowed herself a smile. She could almost feel sorry for Justin — almost. But after what he'd done to her... Her belly roiled and her blood fired at the memories. How dare he come anywhere near her after treating her like that! She took a long slow breath, trying to focus. Be sensible. Justin wasn't coming back to tramp all over her heart again. He was here for business. Here to win over Victoria Feathersham with a captivating proposal of marriage. She swallowed the ache in her chest. Justin successfully proposing to Victoria would be a feather in her cap. Her business would boom — if Justin shared her name with the men in the socialite circles that Victoria was sure to drag him into. She shook her head. Who was she kidding? He wasn't likely to bring up the fact he'd needed help to propose. She'd just have to be happy with her fee. Tessa couldn't help but smile. A proposal to a woman like Victoria Feathersham was going to cost — he'd need all the trimmings to impress the likes of her. And there was nothing wrong with that at all — a girl deserved the most romantic, most memorable proposal for marriage, and she was all for giving her that. Besides, she could do with the cash flow to get her away from her sister's three children, two dogs, two cats and the spare room-slash-cupboard she was staying in and into a place of her own. She shifted in her seat, vividly aware of the man in front of her. The taste of vindication would be sweet. After all the years of study she'd put in under her mother's cousin, a well-to-do wedding planner in America,
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she looked forward to using her skills to prove herself to the man who'd caused her to flee Sydney. If only she could just block out that this was Justin. "You're the proposal planner?" Justin's dark eyes probed hers. "You're kidding, right?" "Not kidding at all, but don't be frightened. I don't bite." Not yet, anyway. He glanced toward the door. She clenched her fisted hands by her sides. Damn it. There was nothing stopping him walking out the door, and there was no way she could let him, not when the woman he wanted to woo was Victoria Feathersham. It was just too good an opportunity to miss. And besides, there were more subtle ways to avenge oneself. And she owed herself that, after the heartache and pain he'd put her through. She'd deserved a proper goodbye, an explanation, a real dumping — not the total void he'd left her with. "I assure you whatever has happened in the past is in the past — business is business," she stated coolly. "If you want Miss Feathersham to have the most impressive, unforgettable proposal ever, you've come to the right place." Justin looked back to her, his brow knotted. "I'm sure I can work this out on my own. I really don't need to —" his gaze roamed over her "— see you." "Really? What did you have in mind?" she asked innocently. "Hopping down on one knee in an up-market French restaurant and popping the question?" "Sounds good to me." And he smiled. Her heart lurched. Her blood heated. And every nerve in her body yearned for what she'd once had with him. For his touch, for his kiss, for his love. She ignored her traitorous body. "Then you'd be wrong. For a woman like Victoria you'd want to impress upon her how special she is, how much she means to you by how you propose." She leaned forward and plucked her contract from the file on the table, breathing deep and slow to dampen his effect on her. "If she loved me, wouldn't whatever I do be okay?" His voice slid over her like lotion and it was all she could do to remain cool, calm and composed. "If you loved her, you'd make it everything that she's dreamed it to be...everything Victoria dreams it to be." She swallowed away the ache in the back of her throat and concentrated on filling out Justin's name on the form. She slid it toward him, holding out her pen, praying for him to sign it quickly, before she had a chance to ponder on the sanity of working with him. He reduced the distance between them. "And you can make it that good?" "Damn right I can," she said with all the enthusiasm she could muster. He sat down in the chair beside hers and took the pen and his fingers brushed hers, sending a warming shiver racing through her body. Maybe, this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe she should refer him to someone else...maybe she had a tad too much baggage to cope with Justin on a one-on-one basis. Tessa pulled her hand back and lay it on her lap, covering it with her other hand. She lifted her chin and met his deep, dark eyes. She wasn't going to blow this chance. No matter what her body remembered of his.
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This was her independence and her future on the line — she wasn't going to let a little thing like helping her first love propose to another woman stop her. The pen hovered over the paper. "I'm a busy man. I really don't have time for this —" he waved a hand in the air "— stuff." She held her hands together, tightly, blotting out the image of wrapping them around his neck. She straightened. "We can meet whenever is convenient for you," she said softly, clamping down on the urge to add a few colorful phrases. "Wherever is convenient for you." Justin signed his name and looked her straight in the eyes. "That suits me fine. How about three p.m. tomorrow afternoon at my office?" "Fine by me," she replied through gritted teeth. On his turf. She should have expected that. Damn, why hadn't she seen that coming? She'd be traipsing all over the city after him! A cold knot formed in her belly as the implications of "his office" sank in. There was no way she wanted him to find out about the accident. She'd won a point by signing him as a client, but was she going to survive the experience and keep the truth from him? CHAPTER THREE He had to be ill. Sick. Justin strode through the office and pushed open the door to the stairwell, ignoring the glances from his employees. He was certainly off his game. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on work all afternoon. And everyone knew it. His secretary had been so concerned she’d even asked him if he needed a doctor. Justin wasn’t about to admit he’d gone to a proposal planner to train for popping the question or that he already knew the woman. That, in fact, the planner was the first girl to have stolen his heart, and some days he was sure she still had it. He swiped his hand over his eyes, trying to work out exactly what he did have. Since seeing Tessa this morning his mind was filled with her. With her face, with her accusing eyes, with her full lips challenging him. And it wasn’t just his head that was hurting thinking about her; every inch of him ached. He took the stairs rather than the elevator to the basement garage, focusing on taking the steps three at a time, on getting home, rather than on why in hell he’d canceled his dinner date with Victoria tonight. She was perfect for him. And Tessa... Tessa was screwing with his head like she had when they were young. He’d never noticed that Tessa lived up the road from him until she’d hit fourteen. She’d watch him with her sea green eyes whenever she passed him on her bike, and he couldn’t deny he was as fascinated with her as she seemed to be with him. When she was sixteen, he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to be with her and he swept her off her feet and into his arms. So, he was older than her by a few years. He knew that. And he was all for waiting. If only she’d been, too, he may have stood a chance.... He warmed at the memory. So it had been love. He ran a hand through his hair. Love. He’d loved Tessa Knightly with all his heart and soul. And it had been good. Felt amazing. But then her mother had taken him aside, and he couldn’t fight the truth in her words. His father was a drunk. He had no goals. He wasn’t enough for her Tessa. Suddenly, it was over — painfully, torturously over.
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Justin had thought he’d never see her again. Was sure she’d be married with kids. Thought it was all over. Until now. Could he ignore the logic of marrying Victoria for the chance at having love, of having his heart involved, at the mercy of being torn to shreds again? Maybe Victoria and he could learn to love each other…. Justin pushed open the door to the garage and strode to his silver Porsche. Maybe he was coming down with something.... He was all twisted up in the head, all achy and unsettled. He straightened. He’d handled million-dollar business deals; he could handle one woman. This was going to be a cinch. One lesson in proposals and he’d be done. Tessa Knightly would be out of his life, and he’d get on with it. Easy. *** Justin pushed his papers around his desk and glanced at the clock again. The knock startled him. His secretary opened the door. “Tessa Knightly to see you, sir.” Justin swallowed the lump in his throat. “Show her in.” “She’s set herself up in the conference room.” His secretary stared at her feet. “She was quite insistent about it.” “Was she now?” Justin should have guessed she’d avoid his private office and opt for somewhere else. And he couldn’t help but smile. At least he was getting to her.... Tessa sat at the conference table, folders spread out in front of her, her chin tilted high and her shoulders thrown back. She wore a cream trouser suit but it did little to hide her curves from his imagination. “Mr. Pearce.” “Miss Knightly.” He took a stab in the dark. He was painfully aware she hadn’t told him whether she was married or not. “You’re late.” She arched her eyebrows. “Three minutes?” “I’m a busy man.” “And you were in your office....” She was right. If he was able to, he could have continued working. “I don’t expect tardiness.” “I’ll remember that.” She moved her handbag under the table and rearranged the folders in front of her. Justin gave her a sidelong glance. She hadn’t missed a beat. He yanked out the chair next to her and faltered. He’d be a lot safer with the large timber table between them. “Well, let’s get to it then.” “Fine by me.” Tessa offered him a smile. “Now, to begin with, I have to get an idea of what Victoria likes so we can make the experience memorable for her.”
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“Makes sense.” Justin moved around the desk and sat down in one of the chairs opposite her, trying to keep his mind on Victoria and not on the way Tessa’s hands moved with such an easy grace. Tessa slid the folders across the table to him. He flicked through the pages, trying to focus on the images, but he was acutely aware of her presence, her soft perfume, and of her eyes on him. “Okay, Justin.” She stared him directly in the eye. “What are Victoria’s favorite flowers?” He glanced at his watch. “Flowers? I give her roses — she doesn’t seem to mind them.” “Okay.” She scribbled in her notepad. “What about her favorite music?” Justin shrugged. “Her favorite food?” He strained for recollection of their last meal and what she’d ordered. “Chicken?” he suggested. “You don’t sound so sure.” Her green eyes widened. “What about her hobbies?” “Hobbies?” He swallowed hard and looked at his watch again. Not long now and it’ll all be over. “You know, the things a person does for fun and personal satisfaction.” He stiffened. What did Victoria do for fun? He had no idea! And admitting the fact to Tessa weighed like a brick in his chest. “Look, the reason I need to know these things isn’t to make your life hard.” She paused. It was as though she saw right through him. He shifted in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s to discover whether she’s romantic or conservative or a bit of both so I can help you create a proposal that would mean the most to her.” Justin was caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of her voice and he met her eyes. Mistake. His heart thudded against his ribs, and his body stirred again to her magic. She regarded him with an impassive coldness. “I suggest you go and find out a little more about the woman you want to marry.” He glared at her. “I know plenty.” “I don’t mean what underwear she wears,” she blurted out. “Ha-ha,” he retorted sarcastically. “You ought to be careful, Tessa. It’s sounding as though you’re jealous.” Her eyes darkened. “In your dreams.” How spot on she was. Since meeting her again he couldn’t get any peace from her, even in sleep! “So, you can’t help me —” he chose his words carefully “— until I can answer your questions about Victoria?” “That’s right. I suggest you spend some quality time with her.” Tessa bit her lip and looked as though she was stifling a smile.
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The breath caught in his throat. She was screwing with his head! He stiffened, his blood firing, his teeth clenched tightly. He wanted to shake the woman. Or kiss her. He glanced at his watch. He only had to keep it together for a little while longer. “Then what?” “Then, I’ll see you again. And hopefully we can come up with a heartrending proposal for her.” Her voice died away and she moistened her lips. “I have to see you again?” “Is that a problem?” CHAPTER FOUR Justin leaped out of his seat and started pacing the floor. Tessa leaned back and waited. She was doing fine, on the surface; she was sure she was radiating a perfectly calm and controlled businesslike air, but on the inside... On the inside she was in turmoil. It had been easier than she’d imagined setting up in his conference room making sure she was in place for Justin. The last thing she wanted was more complications. Justin stopped and turned to her. "If I can tell you what you want to know, will I need another appointment?" She stiffened. It was painfully obvious that Justin wasn't thrilled with the prospect of another meeting with her. "If you can tell me about the woman you want to marry," she offered calmly, "I can work out what sort of proposal will be the most moving for her." "And if I do," he said carefully, "can we get it all done today?" "We can try." She forced a smile of encouragement. He lifted a finger. "Give me a minute." And he left the room. Tessa sighed. What he was doing didn't leave much to the imagination after flunking all her questions. He was asking his secretary — the woman probably knew more about Victoria Feathersham than Justin did. She stiffened. She didn't care, she reminded herself sharply. If Victoria was who he wanted to marry, he deserved her. This job may be tough on her sanity but if she could pull it off, it would give her a start in the business. She would just have to tough it out. And if Justin wanted to get this over in one session, she was all for it. The sooner she got away from his deep, dark eyes and tempting body the better! Justin strode back into the room. "She loves white roses, caviar and her hobby —" he glanced at the notepad in his hand "— is organizing and attending charity balls." "Okay, great." If that's what his secretary said, she would give him the most romantic, all the frills, minimalcontact proposal plan possible. She closed her eyes and imagined the woman. "Balls, gowns, Cinderella style," she murmured to herself, slowly opening her eyes. Justin came toward her. She couldn't help but hold her breath. His presence was commanding and disturbing. "I suggest you take her on a horse-and-buggy ride through a park, to a gazebo decked out in fairy lights with a small orchestra playing classical music amongst the trees...."
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"I could have thought of that," he said. "Yes, you could have, but you didn't." “So, that’s it.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms against the other, his eyes bright. “I don’t need you now.” He wished! Tessa raised an eyebrow, smothering the smile that threatened her cool facade. “So you know exactly what to say to make the proposal perfect?” Justin shrugged. “I figure I’ll just tell her how beautiful she is and ask her to marry me.” “Well, that would be okay, but not memorable.” Tessa shifted in her seat. “Now, something like telling her that you’ll love her forever and that you can’t imagine a future without her would be a start.” Her blood burned. “But, oops... I remember now. You’re not good at following through on forever, are you?” “Tessa.” Justin’s voice was dangerously soft. “It wasn’t like that.” She crossed her arms. “Then tell me what it was like.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She didn't want to rehash the pain of the past, why he’d packed up and left home, and her, without a word. He dragged in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Your mother pulled me aside to talk with me.” Tessa stared at him, her mind whirling. She never knew that! “She told me to back off. That you were too young.” Her mother would. She’d been a teenage bride herself and a teenage mother — she could clearly see now how her mother must have felt seeing her out with an older boy, totally and utterly in love with the guy. “And you did.” The words tumbled from her mouth. That he was so easily dissuaded from their relationship pained her. If he’d loved her, even a little, wouldn’t he have fought to be with her...or was she just a notch for his ego? “I didn’t want to hurt your mother — or you.” “And leaving me like that — you don’t think that hurt?” Justin rubbed his neck muscles. “I couldn’t stay. Your mother was right. You needed time to grow up. So I went and did a business course in Queensland. Stayed at my uncle’s place. I came back, with an offer of a good position in a large Sydney firm, with a future, but you’d left for America. So I got on with my life.” He paused. “I figured your life would be easier without me.” “Easier?” Tessa choked on the word. “My life hasn’t been easy.” “Tell me about it.” She couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him what had happened after he left — what had happened to her. She shook her head. “I got on with my own life.” She moved to the edge of her chair, suppressing the thousand wild emotions ravaging her body — he should have stayed…he would have if he’d loved her — fighting the urge to grab something and whack him with it. “Now, to business... Show me how you’re going to propose.” “Seriously?”
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“Yes.” She waved her hand for him to proceed. If she was going to have half a chance at keeping her mind on the job, she’d have to get on with it. He loosened his tie and dropped to his knee in front of Tessa, taking her hands in his. Sensation shot from where he held her, coursing down her spine and into every nerve in her body. He gazed into her face, his eyes flickering. Justin’s mind raced. Not with what he was going to say to Victoria, but with a thousand questions about why he’d want to. Bolts of excitement raced through his body, the implication of kneeling there, in front of Tessa, drummed through him…with her soft green eyes on him, waiting. “I... I want —” He swallowed hard and moistened his lips. He wanted Tessa. He didn’t want this mutual “arrangement” with Victoria. He was selling himself short, and so was she. Sure, it would have been safer. A whole lot safer than putting his heart out there again, but some things were worth the risk. It wasn’t Victoria he wanted to share his life with. It was Tessa. Only Tessa. Had only ever been Tessa. And he had to tell her. Show her. Justin sucked in a deep breath. “I want you to know how my heart flutters every time you walk into the room. How I can’t think when you’re close. How you make me feel like I’m something special.” Tessa’s eyes burned, and the ache in her throat threatened to suffocate her. It was as though he was proposing to her...something she’d once wanted, desperately. “And I’d be the happiest man alive if you’d consent to be my wife.” Her belly curled. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Justin pulled her down into his arms and his mouth covered hers hungrily. His cologne caressed her senses as his mouth moved over hers, devouring its softness. Her thoughts spun. She should be fighting him off, resisting, but the warmth of his arms was so male, so strong and comforting, that all she wanted was to languish in this tantalising persuasion of her lips, forever. His warm gentle mouth danced over hers, sending jolts of awareness racing through her, and her body sang his praises through her every nerve, each one tuned to the fire he was fanning in her. Tessa couldn’t help herself; she returned his kiss with reckless abandon, her mouth hot and welcoming, soft and sensuous... “What the hell is going on?” The shrill voice pierced through Tessa. She pushed herself away from Justin, her cheeks flooding with fire. Victoria Feathersham stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and her mouth pulled thin. Caught in a clinch on the floor with her client — Victoria’s boyfriend! Tessa swallowed hard. What could she possibly say? CHAPTER FIVE Justin held Tessa’s shoulders. He wasn’t sure whether he was holding on to keep her steady or himself. That kiss! Her lips... God, he’d missed her. Missed feeling like this... Alive. “You’re so perfect,” Justin whispered softly to Tessa. The urge to reach out and run his hand down her cheek, over her full lips and down her neck almost too much to bear. “You’re what I want....”
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“Justin!” Victoria barked. He twisted slowly around to face Victoria, his mind blank. Victoria. She stood, hands on hips in the doorway, her eyes blazing. Victoria — the woman he planned to marry. Victoria was decked out in some designer outfit in soft blue, her hair immaculately styled, her presentation flawless. She would compliment his perfect life with her beauty and social position.... He clenched his jaw. The drive to attain perfection stemmed from Tessa, from years ago. Her mother had been right. She’d been too young and he hadn’t been good enough for her, but now, now there was hope.... And judging by her response in his arms there was a chance that he hadn’t lost Tessa when he’d run away from her years ago. That kiss would suggest so. That despite everything that had happened, they could have a second chance. Justin dropped his hands from Tessa reluctantly and stood up, facing Victoria. She deserved an explanation; she deserved the truth.... His gut roiled. “I come down here, Justin —” her voice was shrill “— to find out why on earth you’d be calling me up and demanding to know all sorts of things about me...and what do I find? I find you in the arms of —” “It’s not what it looks like, Miss Feathersham,” Tessa said, her cheeks flushed. “Really,” Victoria snorted. “Then please explain what you were doing with your lips glued to Justin’s?” Tessa opened her mouth, staring toward the ceiling, looking extremely uncomfortable kneeling there on the floor. Why didn’t she get up? “Tessa Knightly, meet Victoria Feathersham,” he blurted. “Victoria, Tessa and I…” Tessa stood up, grasping the edge of the table tightly as though the kiss had affected her legs. “We’re working on a special project together.” Justin stiffened. Why not just tell the truth? He met Tessa’s eyes. She was covering for him. Making it okay for him if he wanted to continue with Victoria. Victoria crossed her arms over her impeccably tailored blouse. “And that involves kissing him?” “Yes. No. Sort of,” Tessa stuttered. “He got carried away. That was all. He thought I was you.” Justin stared at Tessa. Where was this coming from? She couldn’t really believe that he mistook her, even for a second, for Victoria Feathersham? The moment he started the proposal, his mind was filled with only Tessa, what they’d had and what he still felt. Victoria raised her finely plucked eyebrows and looked down her nose at Justin. “And how would you make that mistake?” she drawled. He hesitated. The idea of telling Victoria that he was planning to propose to her sat heavily in his chest. “My sister arranged for me to go to a —” “A therapist,” Tessa blurted, dropping into her chair and interlacing her fingers on the table in front of her, exuding a calm that he wished he was feeling.
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Justin stared at Tessa, speechless. How could she lie so easily and readily? Was lying a prerequisite of the job to keep the proposal a secret until the faithful moment? “A therapist? And you’re it?” Victoria’s eyes darkened. “Then what were you doing kissing her?” she demanded of him. Justin’s gaze rested on Tessa’s lips. Having the time of his life...reminding himself of what he was missing out on...what he’d left behind...what was within his grasp now... “I was...doing regression therapy —” Tessa looked wildly around the room “— and Mr. Pearce saw me as all his past girlfriends that he’d left behind.” His chest ached. He saw her as one in particular that he’d wished he’d never left behind at all. “You said he thought I was you?” Victoria’s voice was high and laced with skepticism. Tessa dragged in a deep breath, stacking her folders into a pile in front of her and lowering her eyes. “I was...representing the past and the future.” She lifted her chin and plunged on. “What you saw was Mr. Pearce embracing the future...his future with you.” Victoria shot him a look of disbelief. “Justin?” “Victoria,” he murmured softly. How was he going to break this to her? How could he have been so wrong? About them. About her. It was as though he’d suddenly woken up to what he’d left behind. And he wasn’t going to sit meekly by and marry “perfect” Victoria — he wanted more. And he was ready to take the risk. Tessa shot him a glare. “I assure you that it meant nothing.” “Nothing?” Justin turned and stared at Tessa, ice seeping into his body. “Nothing? Surely it had some significance?” “Yes. Nothing.” She took a deep breath. “You’re free to marry Victoria.” Justin didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe that she could dismiss that kiss so easily. There was no way that a kiss that could rock his world wouldn’t even make a ripple on hers. “That’s your final word?” Tessa glanced at Victoria. “In my professional opinion, Mr. Pearce, you are more than ready to focus entirely on the future you’ve chosen.” He shuddered. He didn’t want to. He wanted Tessa in his future. He wanted her in every aspect of his life to make it worth living again. Tessa restacked her folders and drew them close to her, the implications of her leaving slicing through him like ice-cold steel. Justin ran a hand through his hair. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. Victoria still stood near the doorway, conspicuously silent as though she hadn’t quite decided if what Tessa had said was the truth or not. And Tessa was on the verge of flight. Tessa’s eyes were hooded, not meeting his directly and Justin couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still a chance, despite what she was saying. “Mr. Pearce —” Tessa glanced at her watch “— your time’s up. I have another appointment.”
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Her coolness tore at his chest. “I don’t want to miss this chance,” he offered, a lightless future rolling out in front of him. Tessa shook her head, her chin tilted high. “Let the past go, Mr. Pearce. You have a future waiting for you.” Her tone was firm, final, drained of all emotion. His thoughts jarred, slicing deep. He’d just spilled his heart to her. Offered himself. He clenched his fists. Again, he’d been drawn in by her magic only to be cut off, not by her mother this time, but by Tessa herself. “Justin?” Victoria moved forward, her voice wavering. He focused only on Tessa, moving over to her where she still sat rigidly in her chair, his mind filled with tumbled thoughts, clambering emotions. He wanted her. Needed her. Surely that had to mean something to her. “I’m sorry for everything, Tessa. Please —” he knelt in front of her chair, his chest aching “— don’t go.” “I thought as much,” Victoria snapped, darting forward. “As if a therapist would act like that.” “Victoria.” Justin struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. He stood up and turned to the woman who he’d deluded himself into thinking would be enough. She slapped him across the face and strode out of the room. CHAPTER SIX There was no way she was going to risk her future on Justin Pearce’s brand of commitment. So what if he could kiss her so soundly and thoroughly that her knees gave out beneath her. Tessa knew it couldn’t last. She’d lived through the aftermath of Justin once already. She shook her head slowly. She wasn’t stupid enough to fall for him twice. Her traitorous body was just confusing her. If only he’d played along with her story. The fool! So typical of a man to get carried away with one kiss...as if it meant something. From his response, he almost had her convinced he’d meant that proposal for her, not Victoria — as if that was likely! A product of her imagination, that was all. Why couldn’t he have kept his mind on the job at hand? She needed Victoria Feathersham’s proposal to go off without a hitch and set her business going. She needed the money. She stared at Justin. And he wanted perfection…. And he thought he could get it with her? That was almost laughable. It certainly showed how little he knew about her. She stiffened. He would never have her if he knew the truth. “Now, look what you’ve done!” she spat out, narrowing her gaze and shooting him what she hoped was a fiery look. “Pardon?” “You’ve messed up your relationship with Victoria over a stupid kiss.” She glared at him. “And what did you think you were doing — calling her up and asking those questions? I assumed you’d asked your secretary!” “I wanted to get this proposal thing over with, okay?” “There’s no wonder she came charging down here!” Tessa turned and looked out the window, shaking her head. She couldn’t even look at the guy. He’d messed everything up — her well-ordered life and the most promising job she’d had to date. “The kiss —”
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“That kiss didn’t mean anything.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt. Her body was still humming and the urge to fall into Justin’s arms again was almost too much to bear. “You really mean that?” he asked thickly. She could tell he didn’t believe her, and the gleam in his eyes and the way he was looking at her lips suggested he could be thinking of proving her words a lie. She wriggled back in the chair. “Yes. Of course I do. You were just projecting. It happens all the time,” she fabricated. “Go after her and make it right.” Justin took her by the shoulders. He stared down into her face, his dark eyes probing hers. “Can you look me in the face and tell me that kiss meant nothing to you at all?” “Of course it meant nothing.” She nearly choked on the words. “Don’t tell me you thought it did?” And she managed a light laugh. Pain flickered in his eyes, and she almost regretted her words. She stiffened, reminding herself of his wrongs. Her mother may have warned him off but that didn’t mean he had to go! What sort of guy was he to run away at the slightest hint of trouble? And she was all for avenging the years of heartache he’d caused her…. She just thought it would feel better than this. “You don’t feel anything for me?” His voice was thick. “Nothing at all.” Tessa lifted her chin and held the folders tightly to her breasts, the lie twisting inside of her. “I know I hurt you. And I’m sorry, but let’s not waste this. We’ve grown up now.” She stiffened. She couldn’t do this. He wanted the perfect woman and she could never be that. “Don’t be a fool. There’s nothing between us.” She swallowed hard. “I…I don’t even like you.” She dragged in a deep breath. “Go after Victoria. You and she make the perfect couple.” The words tasted like bile, but she had to do it. For her business, for her sanity, for her heart that had barely survived the last time. He hesitated only a moment, but the look in his eyes wrenched her heart. She saw the boy inside the man clearly, still as confused and lost as he ever was, hiding from emotions as his father had. Although his father had drowned his sensitivity in a bottle, while Justin — whom she followed in the social pages — chose the arms of pretty, shallow women. Her mind jerked. She could see it clearly now. Justin hadn’t run away from her, but what she evoked. He could have been afraid that he’d turn out like his father, who’d been so stricken with grief at losing his wife he couldn’t cope. And her mother had only exacerbated the situation by drumming home how he shouldn’t be thinking seriously about making a commitment to her. And he wasn’t. Until now. Tessa’s eyes burned with the irony. Justin slammed the door after him, the crash echoing around the conference room like a resonating bell, ringing a death toll through Tessa’s heart. What had she done? She swallowed the tearing ache in the back of her throat. He’d catch up with Victoria, may even confess his hiring of a proposal planner to give her the best proposal ever. And she’d fall into his arms. Tessa smothered a cry, clawing unbidden up her throat. She’d made the wrong choice. She knew it. Every inch of her body knew it. She’d been so hell-bent on convincing herself that Justin meant nothing to her that she’d ignored her heart. She leaned heavily on her cane as she walked slowly to the door, her heart as heavy as her leg.
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She pushed open the door and managed a smile. At least she still had her business. Tessa wished she could take back time…and her words. She wasn’t a bitter woman. Even after the car had knocked her off her bike, she hadn’t been angry, just resigned. Like how she’d just cried about Justin leaving her years ago, avoiding confronting him, finding him. She cast a long look down the corridor to the elevators. So much of her wanted to race to him and tell him what she really felt before he dropped to his knee and proposed to Victoria Feathersham. She hesitated. But if Justin was all for proposing, didn’t that mean he felt nothing for her? She shook her head. She was confusing herself. All that mattered was that she still loved him, even after all these years. But did she know this Justin? Was the older Justin who she wanted? Who she loved? She had no idea. All she knew was that she should give love one last chance. With him. But would he really want her? CHAPTER SEVEN Justin had seen the flames in Tessa’s eyes, felt the passion in her lips and her touch. He faltered, staring at the lift doors. She had to have lied. Said what she did out of revenge. And he’d deserved it. Deserved her hate, her spite and her harsh barbs. He’d wronged her. He’d left her. Without a word, he’d left her and hadn’t looked back, too scared of what he felt to face her. Justin ran a hand through his hair and over his eyes, trying to blot out the past few minutes. What had happened to the innocent, easy as hell proposal planning? He turned, looking back down the hallway to where the conference room was, to where she was. The pain threatened to tear him in half. He wanted her and she wanted nothing to do with him. He was an idiot. He should have known she’d still be smarting from his callous treatment of her years ago. He’d been young and stupid, not knowing what he had until she was gone. Some days he’d seriously thought about following her to America. Other days, he was sure it was vital to get over her and get on with life. And he had. Focusing on university and shaping up had been a good thing for him. Striving to better himself had made him who he was today. Tessa made him feel more than any woman ever had. And he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing. He’d seen firsthand what had happened to his father…. His mobile shrilled its annoying melody. He had half a mind to ignore it. But whatever state he was in, work always was good to get his mind off things. And boy, did he need it this minute. “Pearce here.” He was curt. “Justin, it’s me, Janice. I just wanted to know how it went with that proposal planner.” He couldn’t miss the lilt behind his sister’s words. “You knew. You damn well knew who she was and set me up!” He almost choked on the words. He’d been manipulated by his worst critic, and the realization seared his mind. “I confess. How’d it go?” Janice said lightly. “Is she still as pretty as she was back then?” Justin dragged in a deep, slow breath. The idea that his sister could have so blatantly set him up with his old girlfriend under the ruse of marrying his current one was disturbing. And the fact that he could be manipulated that easily, distressing. “I knew you hadn’t gotten over her. She was so good for you. Is she single? Is she interested?”
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“Your plan backfired, sister-dear. Tessa is as lovely as she ever was, but unfortunately, she hates my guts.” “Well, that’s no surprise.” She gave a soft laugh as though it was the most normal thing in the world to set him up with someone who hated him. “I hope you didn’t take no for an answer!” He ignored her, steeling himself for her lecture. She was two years older than he was and as far as she was concerned knew everything, about everything. “Come on,” she urged. “Give me some juicy details.” Justin stepped into a lift and punched the ground floor button. “So you never had any intention of me proposing to Victoria?” “Come off it. She’s a stiff cardboard cutout. You need someone with a soul, with a heart. I figure I should be congratulated for my ingenuity. As soon as I heard Tessa Knightly was back from America...” “Well, thanks for your nose in my business, but I’ll take it from here.” And he rang off. Damn, he hated being predictable. He stepped out of the elevator and strode to his Porsche, squashing the feelings raging inside him. He wasn’t going to be a pawn. He was going to have the perfect life.... *** Justin flicked on all the lights in his apartment and dropped onto the sofa. The extra light didn’t make any difference. It still felt cold and empty. What had Tessa done to him? He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He couldn’t hide from it anymore. And couldn’t ignore the fire raging inside him for her — Tessa was his match, in every way. So he was predictable. So his sister had set him up. None of it mattered. All that really mattered was making the past right for Tessa and making the future right for them both. He’d accepted losing Tessa the last time round. He wasn’t going to do it again. This time, he was going to fight. He was going to make it right. Make her his. Justin picked up his mobile. But first things first. The doorbell finally chimed. Justin straightened his shirt and smoothed down his trousers, throwing back his shoulders and striding to the door. This was it. He yanked it open. She walked in, dressed to perfection, her long lithe body clad in a clinging cream gown, her hair pinned up, pearl drops at her ears and a string of pearls at her throat. “So start explaining,” Victoria demanded smoothly. Justin offered her a seat. “The woman in my office was a proposal planner. I’m sorry for the lie about her being a therapist, but I didn’t want to admit I needed professional assistance.” And there was no way he was going to admit how much he felt about her and hurt Victoria more. “You’re getting help to propose?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice tight. “To me?”
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He crossed his arms over his chest. “I need to talk to you about us.” Victoria swallowed hard. “Us?” “Victoria, you’re a wonderful person but I can’t do this.” Justin paced the room, his body coiled tight. “I’m sorry. You’re perfect. You really are...but you deserve someone that’ll love you totally. And that’s not me.” She touched her chest, letting out a heavy sigh. “Good. I am so glad you said that.” Justin stiffened. “Pardon?” She swished her hand through the air. “I’m dumping you. I’ve found someone else — someone special to share my life with —” she stood up and smoothed down her dress “— and I hope you do, too.” He couldn’t help smiling, relief washing through him like spring rains. Victoria sauntered to the door. “I hope you didn’t pay the woman too much for the proposal advice seeing as you won’t be needing it for a while.” Justin shrugged. “Hang on,” Victoria cooed, swinging the door wide. “It’s that woman. That proposal woman, isn’t it?” He couldn’t deny it. The thought of Tessa thrummed through his body. Victoria may have been a catch, but there was no doubt in his mind now. Tessa was perfect, more perfect than he could have imagined... “Hey.” Justin strode to the door, catching Victoria on the landing. “If you didn’t really care, then why did you slap me?” Victoria shook her head. “I don’t appreciate being told lies. I would have preferred the truth, straight up.” “I’m sorry. I was trying to tell you the truth but Tessa —” “— is in denial,” Victoria finished for him. The elevator dinged its arrival. “Goodbye, Justin, and good luck.” “You too,” Justin offered, his heart light and his mind buzzing. Now all he had to do was win Tessa’s heart…. CHAPTER EIGHT Justin pushed open the door to Tessa’s offices, his blood pounding in his veins, his chest full, and his mind tense in anticipation of the challenge that lay ahead of him. He had to get this right this time. The receptionist stood beside her desk, buttoning her cardigan. “I’m sorry, we’re closed.” “Where is she?” he demanded. He didn’t care that it was after six, as long as Tessa was still there. The woman picked up her purse. “She’s getting a cup of coffee.” Justin strode down the hallway. Tessa stood behind the counter of the kitchenette, tipping hot water into a cup. A lock of her blond hair fell around her face, her focus on what she was doing. “Tessa.” He whispered her name, his throat tight.
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She jerked her gaze to meet his. “Justin.” Their eyes met and held. A spark of hope warmed him. Tessa clunked the kettle down on the counter and grabbed a tea towel, sponging up the spilt liquid from around her cup. “What are you doing here?” “Looking for you.” She straightened. “Did you muck up the proposal?” He could have been affronted that she’d assumed the worst. That after her help in proposal planning, after she’d shunned him, that he would have reverted to his original plan. “Totally wrecked it.” And he had. Just not in the way she thought. Tessa gripped the tea towel tightly. “Tell me what you said, and I’ll see if I can help you remedy the situation.” He moved over to the bench. “You’re so damned dedicated.” She managed a smile. “That’s my job. So what did you say?” “I surprised her.” He moved closer, praying that there was still a chance for them. “Thought I’d chicken out?” “No, of course not.” She met his gaze. “Well, yes. I was sure you would.” Like he had when they were young. He’d been afraid to get serious, afraid to lose himself in love. “You think I’m not into commitment?” “I think you’re scared of loving someone like your father loved your mother.” Tessa tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Because when she died your father couldn’t cope without her.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, braving the urge to run from someone who could see him clearly for who he was. “You’re probably right. But I’m here to remedy the situation.” “To get help to propose properly to Victoria?” Tessa shook her head. “Because if it’s anything else — I’m not a therapist. That was a lie for Victoria’s benefit.” “And how much lying have you been doing, Miss Knightly?” The urge to drag her into his arms and kiss away all her doubts was excruciating, but he held his ground. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Enough to get by.” “I think I’m not the only one that’s been hiding from my true feelings,” he accused. “I don’t know what you mean.” She threw the cloth into the sink. He stopped at the bench. “I’ve been lost, searching for the perfect partner to share my life with.... And then I found you.” “Me? Your perfect partner?” Tessa laughed, but her eyes were cold and flat as though she was a million miles away, or wished she was.
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“Yes, you’re perfect,” he murmured. “From the top of your glorious blond hair to the tips of your toes — perfect.” A shadow flickered in her eyes. “And that’s what you’re after. Perfection?” “You’re beautiful, Tessa. Everything a man could want. I want. Perfect.” He could finally see that his life would mean more than a bank balance and a tally of empty years. And he was ready to stop teasing her and to come clean. “I didn’t propose to Victoria. We broke up. I want to give us a chance.” Her face darkened. “Get out.” Justin swallowed hard. “Pardon?” “You’ve got the wrong girl.” She waved him off. “The wrong idea. Please go.” He hesitated, his mind tumbling in confusion. She gripped the bench tightly with one hand. “I’m sorry about the kiss. It was a mistake. I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I hate you.” Justin hesitated for only a second, the impact of her words slicing through him. How could he have been so wrong? So stupid? She hadn’t been in denial, she’d been honest! He strode out the door. *** Tessa hobbled to the passageway, leaning heavily on her cane for support and not just because her leg was sore but because her legs were like jelly. Tears burned her eyes. He had no idea about her accident... but he wanted perfection and there was no way she could offer him that. Tessa’s stomach curled. She’d hurt him. And the knowledge clawed at her, but telling him the truth wouldn’t have helped. She didn’t want his pity. She waited for the sound of the shop door. Nothing. Tessa stumbled into her office, her heart pounding. What was he doing? She lurched to her sofa and collapsed onto it, kicking her cane underneath. “I need you to open the door.” Justin stood in the doorway. “Why’s that?” she managed calmly. “Because the door is locked.” “My receptionist always locks up after herself. I usually work late. I don’t want just anyone walking in late at night.” Tessa bit her lip. She was babbling. “Well…” The office keys were in her handbag in her desk. “You can get the keys yourself.” Justin crossed his arms over his chest. “And why is that?” “Because I’m not going to go to any effort for you,” she said as calmly as she could.
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He reduced the distance between them and held out his hand to her. “Let me help you up, then.” “They’re in the bottom drawer on the right.” Her throat ached and her eyes burned. Why couldn’t her secretary have just left the door open? Justin shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at her. “I get the impression that something else is going on here.” Tessa tried to laugh, but the sound clogged in her throat. “So what is it? Another lover? A hidden agenda? A secret baby?” Tessa almost choked. “You’re crazy. Please just get the keys and go.” “Fine. Goodbye then, Miss Knightly.” He held out his hand, offering her a cordial handshake. She took it. One last goodbye. She could let herself have that, could savor his touch one last time. Justin straightened, pulling her with him, stepping back and yanking her to her feet. “You can show me out.” Tessa staggered. “What in —?” Concern blazed in his eyes. Tessa hung on to him for balance. Damn stupid leg. Darn her secretary for locking the door! Justin wrapped her in the comfort of his arms, drawing her close. “What’s going on, Tessa?” She sighed, looking up into his rich dark eyes. “I was knocked off my bike by a car a while back and now my leg isn’t as reliable as it used to be. That’s all. No big deal. It doesn’t make any difference.” “Then why didn’t you tell me? Show me?” His voice thick, his brow furrowed. Tessa sucked in a slow, deep breath. “I wanted you to remember me the way I was,” she whispered, staring at the floor. Justin tilted her chin up. “I want to keep you just the way you are.” Tessa’s eyes burned, and a wave of warmth washed through her. She couldn’t believe it. “I’m not perfect,” she said carefully. “You’ve always been, and always will be, perfect to me.” He ran his hand around the curve of her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. “The problem as far as I see it is that you don’t love me.” She managed a smile, her chest filled with love. “So I lied.” “You do love me?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Always.” And Justin claimed her lips, wrapping her in his warm arms, kissing away the years of pain, of separation.
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Tessa held him tightly. She knew there were no guarantees that they’d have the perfect life, but she knew that they had something worth far more. They had love, and deep down inside, she knew they’d always have each other.
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The Tycoon's Surprise by Katherine Garbera Life has been handed to Maxwell Harris on a silver platter ? that is, except when it comes to finding one true love. Sabrina Tyrell is a charming diversion from the business that brought him to Amelia Island, but Max wants nothing more from her than one perfect night spent arousing the passion he senses within her. Sabrina has made a good life for herself, but she's always been unlucky in love. Trusting fate seems to find her falling flat on her face. On a dream island vacation, she meets Max, a man she suspects could bring her to a level of pleasure that has always eluded her. What she doesn't expect is to fall in love with her one-night standSabrina has made a good life for herself, but she's always been unlucky in love. Trusting fate seems to find her falling flat on her face. On a dream island vacation, she meets Max, a man she suspects could bring her to a level of pleasure that has always eluded her. What she doesn't expect is to fall in love with her onenight stand Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One: Max Harris wasn't the kind of guy who engaged in one-night stands. But Sabrina Tyrell was bringing him around to a new way of thinking. He'd noticed her when she'd arrived by boat on Amelia Island last Tuesday. It wasn't that she'd been alone instead of with a group like most of the other women who visited the luxurious island resort. She'd stepped off the dock and onto the sand and closed her eyes. There was a frankly sensual appreciation of the earth in her body. It had been powerfully arousing to him. They'd spent the past five days together doing everything from wind sailing to scuba diving. For the first time since he'd started working, Max didn't want his stay at the resort to end. He wondered if Sabrina felt the same way, but didn't want to ask. He had a meeting in Chicago early on Monday and tonight was probably the last time he'd see Sabrina. And he wasn't going home until he'd done more than kissed her luscious lips. He wanted to explore the sensuality hidden in her eyes. To see if the passion she'd brought to wind sailing rivaled the passion he sensed she'd bring to his bed. Their lives were literally worlds away. She thought he was a CPA from Chicago, which was true in one sense, but he was more than that. As CFO of Harris Resorts, he did more than keep the books. He traveled regularly to the various resorts owned by his family and to others as well, to check on the quality of the services. Such as this luxurious restaurant, where he'd invited Sabrina to dinner, to share his last evening at the resort ? and, he hoped, the rest of the night as well. "Thanks for dinner, Max," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "It was the least I could do after you showed me the finer points of wind sailing." He couldn't remember ever being so attracted to a woman. Tonight she wore a slim-fitting sundress that brought out her tan and made her shine like the sun. Her hair was caught at the nape, and he wanted to free it. He liked seeing her brown curly hair free about her shoulders. She had the healthy look of a woman who loved the outdoors. She was fit and in shape, but not in a sculpted muscular way. Her breasts were full and her hips gently curved. Her long legs were accentuated by the strappy high-heeled sandals she wore tonight. "Most men don't like to take advice from women." "Well, my father always said, he who doesn't ask for help ends up looking like a fool."
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Sabrina's eyes were deep, unfathomable pools in the candlelight. He burned to know her secrets. To unravel the mystery that was Sabrina so he could get her out of his system. "I can't imagine you looking like a fool." "It's happened more often than I'd like to admit," he said. A warm breeze stirred the flame of the candle on the table between them. It felt as if they ere the only two people on the island tonight. Though they were at an exclusive restaurant, the dining area was comprised of small balcony alcoves that provided intimacy. Max was glad he'd brought her here tonight. She was a woman used to fending for herself, but tonight he wanted to pamper her and cherish her. To give her something he sensed she'd never had before. Because that's what she'd done for him. What time do you leave tomorrow?" she asked. "I have to be back in Jacksonville by six." "In the morning?" she asked. "No, evening." "You?" he asked. "I don't leave for three more days," she said. "Want to take a catamaran out tomorrow?" He nodded. "Sure, but let's concentrate on tonight." "Okay." She pushed the wild rice around on her plate and toyed with her fish instead of eating it. "Did you like the mahimahi?" he asked. "Yes. I'd never tried it before," she said, her voice cool and distant. "Thanks for recommending it." "Why are you suddenly treating me like a stranger?" he asked. She stiffened and placed her fork on the table. "It's just that I don't know you in this setting." "I'm still the same guy you've spent the past five days with." "I know, but here you fit in and I don't. I've never been to a place as fancy as this. I'm not used to such luxury. I feel like I don't blend in." "You're right," he said. Her mouth turned down and she glanced out at the starlit ocean. "I'd hoped you hadn't noticed." He grasped her chin and turned her face toward his. "You could never blend in here. You stand out like an exotic flower. Beautiful and bright, full of life and promising sensuality. Every man in the place wants to be with you, every woman wishes she were you."
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She blinked and turned away again. Her skin was soft to the touch but then he'd known it would be. He also knew her stomach was just as soft and very sensitive. He'd used the flimsiest of excuses to touch her the past few days but tonight there would be no excuses and no mistaking his intent. A slight blush covered her cheeks. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that." "Why not? It's the truth." "Only you see me that way." "Then see through my eyes," he said. He'd originally approached Sabrina on his first day of vacation because he was attracted to her. But she'd made it clear she wanted to be treated like a buddy and not a woman. Last night, he'd kissed her and made it obvious she was more than a buddy to him. He'd given her time to get used to him but he was out of time. Tonight was their last chance to explore the hidden current of desire that ran strongly between them. "I'm afraid," she said at last. "Of what?" "You make me want to be someone I'm not," she said. "Have I asked you to?" Because he realized he wanted to unleash her sensuality but not change the woman she essentially was. "No. But I've always dreamed of being an adventurous woman." "What kind of adventure?" he asked. Because she was the most daring person he knew. She'd swum with sharks in New Zealand and climbed sheer rock faces in Utah. When she'd told him of her daring he'd had a moment of fear for her. That this beautiful vibrant woman may have died before he'd had a chance to meet her. "Did you mean it when you kissed me?" she asked. "You know I did." "How can I be sure?" she asked. Her doubts were clearly written on her face. She wanted him but he knew her well enough to know she was the kind of woman who didn't give herself easily. "Because I'm a man." "That sounds very chauvinistic." "Only to someone who hasn't spent time with me." "It's strange to think how well I do know you," she said at last. "It's kismet, Sabrina," he said. Saying it was lust wasn't what she needed to hear from him. And in a way he did believe in fate. Just not in love. He'd never believed in any of the softer emotions because in his experience those were the ones others had exploited to manipulate him. "The last time I trusted fate I ended up flat on my face."
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"I'm not asking you to trust fate," he said. "No?" "No. I'm asking you to trust your instincts." "Which instincts?" "The ones that are telling you to indulge in your most daring adventure." She stared at him. "If I do, I'm not going to let you take control." "What do you want from me, Sabrina?" he asked, realizing she might have been biding her time this week. She glanced around the deserted balcony, then leaned across the table. The flickering light of the candle accentuated the planes of her face. "I want you, Max. Just you, for this one night." Chapter Two Sabrina didn't know what she'd expected from Max. Since they'd met five days earlier at this resort on Amelia Island, he'd been eager to spend time with her. But becoming her love slave for an evening might be asking for too much A moment ago, she'd steeled her nerves and taken the plunge, doing what she'd secretly wanted to do since she first met Max. She'd propositioned him, letting him know that she wanted to spend more than just the evening with him. She wanted the whole night, too. He arched one eyebrow at her. "That's just what I had in mind, darling." Max Harris was the kind of man who could use the word darling and not sound ridiculous. Tall, tanned, and very fit, he'd seemed at home on the ocean and beaches. It was only tonight that she realized he fit just as well in the world of the wealthy. She'd saved for 18 months to be able to afford a week's stay at this exclusive resort. Max was first-class all the way, from the tips of his hand-sewn Italian leather shoes to the Armani evening suit he wore with a graceful ease that told its own story. "Good," she said. Amusement lit his stark features. He reached across the table and drew his forefinger down the side of her face, lingering at the pulse beating at the base of her neck. "I promise it'll be better than good." "What if I want to be in charge?" she asked around a tight throat. Her nipples had beaded at his first hot touch. She wanted him to keep touching her. To move his fingers lower, past the strap of her sundress, under the bodice to the naked flesh waiting for him. "Darling, whatever you want." What had he said? She was deep in a fantasy where this man would do whatever she asked. Thank God they were all alone on a private secluded balcony because she felt as if she was about to melt into a puddle. "Anything?" He rubbed his forefinger again on her neck and she felt gooseflesh spread down her arm. She slid forward on her chair so that he could caress her easily. "I'm interested in your pleasure," he said.
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A tingle started at her center and spread throughout her body. No man had ever said those words to her. She shifted in her seat and tried not to let him take complete control of her. She had an objective. The moment she'd met Max, she'd had the feeling that he might be the one man with whom she might be able to experience the "big O." She'd experimented with different guys, but this time she wasn't taking any chances. She was more than mildly attracted to Max, and he seemed like a guy who knew his way around a woman's body. Instinctively, she felt that the passion she sensed within Max when they wind sailed together would cause sparks if they spent time together between the sheets as well. "I think we had the same objective in mind, but there might be a few differences in opinion over the exact activities." He removed his touch from her and she felt suddenly cold. She worried that she might not be able to protect herself from caring for him. It had become really clear tonight that Max moved in a world in which she'd never be comfortable. "Whatever the activity, I can guarantee your pleasure, Sabrina." His voice caressed her the same way his finger had. Brushing over her skin to spread slowly throughout her body, fanning fires his touch had ignited. Until her pulse beat a little quicker. Her skin felt ultra sensitized. The warm ocean breeze enhanced those feelings, playing over newly awakened nerve endings. While she wasn't normally aggressive around men, she'd decided this luxury vacation was a once in a lifetime chance. And she wanted more than a few nights' accommodation at the five-star resort. She wanted a red-hot affair with the kind of man passionate dreams were made of. She didn't believe that dream man existed until she'd seen Max Harris. She'd met him the first day she'd stepped off the boat on Amelia Island. The way he'd looked at her made her feel like a beautiful woman in a way she never had before. She knew how to hold her own with surfers, fishermen, and other outdoor enthusiasts because she owned a surfing and fishing rental shop in Ft. Lauderdale. But none of them ever made her feel special the way one look from Max did. The waiter cleared their dinner plates. Max ordered dessert and wine for both of them, speaking with the waiter in fluent French. She had some doubts. She wasn't cultured or sophisticated like Max so obviously was. Her planned seduction of her wind-sailing, bodysurfing buddy needed some adjusting. She scarcely recognized this GQ guy in a suit that without a doubt cost more than the rent on her apartment. Mentally she knew it was the same guy but appearances had really changed. "Do you like raspberries, Sabrina?" he asked. She nodded, suddenly incapable of speech. What had she been thinking? Her stomach fluttered and she felt more nervous now, sitting on this secluded balcony with Max, than she had when she'd been in the water with the sharks. "I thought you would." His voice made her want to close her eyes so she could let her ears focus on him. He called to all of her senses. Made her want to indulge each of them slowly on their own. Let his voice brush over her skin so close she could hear each word against her as he spoke. The humid warmth of his breath, the subtle touch of his strong lips, the rough edge of his teeth. She opened her eyes and found Max staring at her. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" "Not a word. I was too busy enjoying you."
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"Don't say things like that," she said. She already liked him too much. And she didn't want to like the man. Lust was okay, but liking could lead to caring and then to hurt. Because she knew that Max and she weren't meant for more than a vacation fling ? a one-night stand. She only hoped her heart would listen. "Why not?" "Because you make me believe in fairy tales again." "Which ones?" "Happily ever after," she said. She reached for her wineglass as an uncomfortable silence filled their table. She could hear the surf breaking on the beach below them. The cicadas called and the wind rustled the palm trees against the side of the building. "I thought all girls believed in that," he said. "Girls do. Women know better." "Who taught you that lesson?" he asked. "None of your business," she said. "What if I make it my business?" She thought about it. He had no idea what she'd be giving up. Her chance at finally experiencing real pleasure in a man's arms. But there was no way she'd ever tell Max that she'd once been so foolish as to love a man who loved only his bank account. A man who thought she was a cheap distraction and not worthy of his real emotions. "Then I'd be happy to sail with you tomorrow but I won't stay with you tonight." "That secret means more to you than passion?" Her back stiffened. "Yes." Chapter Three Keep your secrets, Max said, knowing that discovering the mysteries of Sabrina?s body would be enough for him. Since he'd come to Amelia Island, Sabrina had definitely proved a distraction. And a temptation that he didn't have to resist ? tonight. His life waited for him in Chicago. A life that included a father who was pressuring Max to marry a society debutante and take over as chairman of Harris Resorts. He'd come to this Florida resort as much to think about the future as to relax, and instead of doing either he'd found Sabrina Tyrell. The waiter brought their dessert: berries and cream, and a nice wine. Max poured a small amount in his glass. Keeping his eyes on Sabrina, he swirled the glass and let the scent of the wine surround him. He lifted the glass and took a sip. "Very good. Full-bodied and robust ? shrouded yet promising." "Me or the wine?" she asked as the waiter filled both of their goblets.
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He liked her best when she remembered she was a strong woman. He must have thrown her for a loop this evening because it was the first time he'd seen a hint of vulnerability in her. "Both." She was a strong woman unafraid of her own desires. Which was what he was counting on. While some men thought sex was created for only their pleasure, Max had learned a long time ago that his pleasure hinged on his partner's. Only when she'd been well satisfied would he feel the kind of gratification he craved. She took a sip of her wine as the waiter moved away. "I could say the same about you." He was ready to leave this table behind. To pull her to her feet and hold her in his arms. One kiss be damned ? he wanted all of her curves resting against him as he caressed her. Seduction took patience, he reminded himself. "Serge," Max said to the waiter. "Sir?" "Please close the door to the main dining room on your way out and leave us undisturbed." "Yes, sir." Serge departed, closing the door behind him. Once again the feeling of being the only two people in paradise assailed him. He wouldn't mind playing Adam to her Eve. How far would Sabrina trust him? He'd never been so tempted by a woman. Never had one messed so completely with his control. He'd been hard off and on for the past five days and tonight it seemed that was finally at an end. For all his sophistication, he thought wryly, he was still only a man. "I wouldn't have guessed you could be so commanding. What else are you hiding, Max?" she asked. There was a teasing glint in her eyes that only added to the tightness of his groin. "Nothing. I'm an open book." Or at least he liked for everyone to think he was. He'd learned a long time ago that the poor-little-rich-boy role only made him feel like a whiner. If there was one thing Max didn't tolerate it was whining, especially from himself. "Why is this the first time I've seen this side of you?" she asked. "I've never pretended to be anything but myself. Maybe you weren't looking hard enough?" he took another sip of the wine, this time tracking her tongue across her lips after setting the glass down. Her full lower lip was moist and beckoning. He wanted to kiss her again. Had waited too long for this moment. "Perhaps," she said. "But you were looking?" he asked, needing reassurance. Maybe because he knew that if one night was all they'd ever have, he wanted her to be very sure of herself. "Does your ego really need stroking?" she asked, rubbing her finger over the rim of her glass. He longed to feel her finger on him in the same motion. Rubbing against his chest and down lower. Using her long-fingered grip on his most intimate flesh.
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He groaned. Blood had flooded his groin the moment she'd said stroke. To hell with seduction and a slow sensuous dance, he needed her. Now. "No, but I do." "Good. I assumed you had something specific in mind when you asked Serge to leave us alone." "I did." "What?" she asked. He sensed her hesitation. Was this new to her? What kind of men had she known that she'd be so unsure now? "Come over here and I'll tell you." "Why?" "Don't question. Just come here." "I'm not used to being ordered around." "I promise you won't object to what I have in mind." She stood and walked toward him. Her walk was the embodiment of her sexuality. If she hadn't been unaware of it he'd have thought she was a first-class man-eater. But after spending so much time with her, he realized she moved in a way that was comfortable for her. If every man who saw her was left aching and wanting, that was his problem. She stopped by his chair. He circled her wrist. A slender gold bracelet with a dolphin charm adorned her tanned skin. He tugged her off her feet and onto his lap. Finally she was in his arms. She smelled faintly of some floral perfume, and her breath when she sighed smelled of the wine they'd drunk. "The night seems endless," she said. "Are you ready to enjoy it?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her face to his. "What do you think?" "That you are one hell of a surprise, darling." He took her mouth the way he'd been wanting to since he'd left her at her room last night. Deeply, leaving no part of her mouth unexplored. She tasted of the wine and faintly of her dinner, but he thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth trying to find the essence that was Sabrina. Needing to embed her taste so deeply inside him that once they parted he'd never forget this, or her. Her tongue was shy but determined. Max tilted his head to allow her better access. Her fingers burrowed into his hair, her nails scraping the back of his scalp. He shifted her in his lap. The skirt of her sundress was straight and narrow and earlier he'd loved that it hugged her hips lovingly, but now he cursed the tight material. Because he wanted ? no ? needed to feel her skin. He rubbed the line of her spine, slid one of the straps of her sundress down her arm. She moaned deep in her throat. The sound scorched him. He slid his mouth down the length of her neck. Her skin was warm to the touch and he felt her pulse race as he suckled her nape.
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Her hands were busy moving down his chest and caressing him through the barrier of his shirt, enflaming him further. Reaching beneath her, he lowered the zipper of her sundress, and used his teeth to tug the silk fabric away from her skin. She was as lovely as he'd expected, a little fuller though. Her breasts were round with large nipples. His hands shook as he looked at her. His legendary control hung by a damned thread. He brought his hands to her feminine flesh, touching her with a soft hand. She shivered. He couldn't wait another minute to taste her. To see if her breasts would be as sweet as her mouth had been. He blew gently on her flesh and watched her shiver. The nipple beaded lightly under his breath and he couldn't wait another minute. But she wasn't quite ready for his mouth yet. She was too still, watching him. "Something's missing," he said. He reached over to the dish of cream that had come with the berries and took a bit on his finger. He rubbed it into her areola. She gasped and her fingernails bit into his arms. He bent and licked at her. Tasting the sweetness of the cream and the even sweeter flesh beneath it. Soon licking wasn't enough and he took her hardened nipple into his mouth, suckling her. Searching for something from her body that he hadn't been aware he'd been missing until this moment. He brought his left hand up to caress her other breast. Sabrina was breathing hard now and Max felt as though he was going to explode if he didn't get inside her. But not here. Not now. He lifted his head. "Don't stop," she said. "I want you naked, Sabrina. I want you in my bed so I can take my time with you." "Please, Max. I've never been this close before. Please...don't stop." Chapter Four "Close to what?" he asked. Great. Now she had to say it. She'd been caught up in the moment earlier or she'd never have mentioned it. She began to feel self-conscious. Her breasts were bared, making her feel voluptuous. His hands were still caressing her skin but his eyes were on her face and not her body. He was the most sensual man she'd ever met. She'd never felt a tenth of the desire she'd experienced with Max with any other man. You can tell me, darling, he said, in a husky whisper that made her shiver. She swallowed and looked out at the sea, not at him. "The big O." "I can promise you more than an orgasm," he said, smiling sexily. She gulped. As much as she craved adventure she wasn't too sure how far from the ordinary she wanted to go. While the thought of even making love on this balcony was enough to titillate her, anything too kinky might not. "Relax, Sabrina. I only want to be the first man to show you what your body was meant to experience." He scooted the dessert plate across the table, and moved his wineglass out of the way.
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She'd never realized how much bigger and stronger Max was than her until he easily shifted her on his lap. Moving her so that her back rested against the table and she straddled his hips. His hands were large, nearly spanning her waist and she felt delicate and feminine when he held her. He wedged one hand under the skirt of her dress. "I hate this slim pain-in-the-ass skirt." "Why?" "Because I can't get my hands under it." "Want me to help you?" "Unless you want me to give it a slit, I think you better." She laughed out loud. His frustration was so plain. The guys she'd dated would have torn her dress and not thought twice about it. She stood and then realized what she was about to do. She wanted more than a quickie on the table. Max meant more to her than just physical pleasure and she had to remember that. "Why don't you scoot your chair back?" He stood and moved his chair away from the table and positioned it to face the ocean. The candle still flickered on the table providing the only light on the balcony. She felt primitive and restless. "Is this what you had in mind?" he asked. She nodded. "Don't get too comfortable." "I don't think comfort comes close to describing what I'm feeling." "Good. Take off your shirt." "When did the stakes change?" he asked, but was already shrugging out of his suit jacket. He draped it over the back of his chair as if they had all the time in the world. "When I realized that I'm not waiting for you to give me what I want. I'm taking it," she said, as he removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Finally he was bare chested. "I like aggressive women." She liked him. She'd seen his chest before, so it came as no surprise to her that he was hard-bodied and sculpted. But tonight that was just one more element in the many that were making her feel like a new woman. "I'm not surprised." "Your turn," he said, sitting back in the chair. If she removed her dress... No guts, no glory, she thought. She tugged the bodice of her dress up, he cloth felt too restraining. She found the side zipper quickly and tugged it down. The dress fell off of her in waves and pooled at her feet. He whistled between his teeth. She cocked her head at him and slid her hand slowly down her body. Loving the feel of her bare skin. Never had she been more comfortable with who she was than in this moment. She reached the waistband of her lacy underwear.
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"Leave your panties on," he said. The words were not husky but almost a growl. "Come here," he commanded. She went to him. His hands spanned her waist, pulling her forward. "Put your legs on either side of my hips," he said, against her breast. She remembered his mouth on her before and braced herself for the sensation again. The rhythmic tugging of his mouth stoked the fire that had been burning since he'd removed his shirt. Even through the barrier of his pants she could feel him, hot and hard between her legs. She caressed his chest and abs, moving toward her goal. She paused at his waistband. His hands swept down her back, grasping her buttocks and pulling her down on his lap. "Still ready?" he asked, dropping biting kisses on the globes of her breasts. He took her hips in his hands and pulled her more fully against his hard-on. "Oh, yes." He returned to her breast, scraping his teeth lightly along her hardened nipple. She shivered and pressed her aching center to the hardness between her legs. She held on to the back of his neck, half-afraid he'd leave her like this. Aching and needing. Her hips rocked slowly ? involuntarily. There was no real rhythm to her motions, just a convulsive seeking of something that only he could give. He took control of that rocking, rubbing the crown of his penis against her mound, through the barrier of his pants. She fumbled between their bodies trying to free him. His hands left her hips and his mouth left her breast. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. His pupils were dilated and she knew he wasn't stopping. "The first time is just for you," he said He took her hips again, his hands cupping each cheek of her bottom. She felt him hot and hard underneath her. His mouth returned to her skin, this time suckling at the base of her neck and chill bumps spread throughout her body. She didn't know if she could take much more, she jerked her mound over his hardness. But he forced her to a more sedate pace, moving her hips in a circling counterpoint to his thrusts. She moaned once and her hands tightened on him. She was so close. Everything inside her was building to the breaking point. Suddenly she felt every muscle in her body tense. The world narrowed and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, shuddering. "Oh, Max." He lifted his mouth from her shoulder and took her lips with his. She rocked a few more times and then fell against him. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands slowly sliding up and down her back. Her breasts were still sensitized and the warm planes of his chest made her want more. Though she'd found completion she needed him. Needed to be filled with Max so that she'd know they'd both shared something. Suddenly she wished this wasn't their only night together. This past week they'd become friends, but tonight they would become lovers. All at once she realized that her feelings about Max were more than caring friendship, and she didn't know if he'd ever feel that way about her. "Was it everything you expected?" he asked. Falling in love, she wondered. No, he meant the big O. "More."
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"Good. Let's get dressed and go to my room. That was only the beginning." He lifted her from his lap and standing in front of him she felt vulnerable. She didn't know if she could do it. Make love with him all night then wave him off in the morning. There was a reason she'd never done this before, she realized. Knowledge was too late in coming, though, because her body still pulsed and there was no way she was going to be able to say no to him or to herself. He shrugged into his shirt, buttoning it and slowly reclaiming that air of sophistication that had knocked her off-kilter earlier. "Uh, Max?" "Yes." She tugged her dress up and closed the zipper. "Just one thing before we leave here." He put on his suit jacket and slid his tie into the pocket, waiting for her to speak. "Next we're going to try a little role reversal." "I don't mind being on top," he said, grinning. "I meant I'll be in charge." Chapter Five TMax had never surrendered control. Never. It wasn't so much a macho thing for him as a survival thing. Only those who ruled themselves could rule others. He'd learned that lesson at a very young age. He'd been steadily climbing the ladder of success at Harris Resorts because as his father said, there were no free rides.hat didn't mean he wasn't a man. He was still aching hard and he would give anything to feel her creamy warmth around him. Saying no simply wasn't an option. Taking Sabrina's elbow, he led her off the balcony and through the dimly lit restaurant. It was a shock to see other diners. He'd become used to being with just Sabrina and he needed that isolation again. He wanted to get her alone so he could bring her around to his way of thinking. For all her strength she was an easygoing woman. As he knew from spending the better part of the week with her. Taking action made him feel better, but Sabrina stopped him once they were outside. She pulled her arm free of his touch and he missed the feel of her warm skin under his. Damn. Leaving wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. But then few things in life were. The night breeze surrounded them and he could smell the ocean. He tipped his head back and reached deep in his soul for a semblance of normalcy. Reached deep into his memory for some image of Sabrina's face other than the way she'd looked as she'd climaxed in his arms just a few minutes before. But the memory was indelibly etched there. Her head tilted back, her eyes wide, lips parted, skin flushed. He hardened even more. Painfully so. He groaned. "Max?" she asked, gently, touching his arm.
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The walkway from the restaurant to the guest rooms was lit with tiki torches. The hibiscus bloomed nearby. He knew he was avoiding Sabrina but if he looked at her again, the first time they had sex would be in the tropical bushes lining the path. The control she wanted him to cede to her was already thin and losing ground by the minutes. "Why are we stopping?" he asked, his voice rough to his own ears. Sounding more like a growling tiger than a human being. She dropped her hand from his arm. "Because I don't think you understood me." "Believe me, Sabrina, I understood." She smiled at him, but he saw the strain in it. He knew she was going to say something that his aching body wouldn't like. If he were half the gentleman he'd always pretended to be then it wouldn't matter. "Then I'll take the lead and we're slowing down," she said. Just go along, his body screamed. But honesty was something he never let g of. If he were only going to have this one night with her he wanted it to be as pure and honest as it could be. "I don't know if I can let you." "You want to go back to your room alone?" she asked. "You've never struck me as a tease," he said, dying a little at the words because he knew she didn't owe him anything. He wanted her in his bed out of desire not debt. "You always struck me as a man of your word," she said carefully. He closed the distance between them. Stopping only when less than an inch of space separated their bodies. Glancing down he noticed her breasts strained the bodice of her sundress. And her breathing was short and shallow. Walking away from him wasn't something she wanted to do, he thought. "I haven't given you my word." "No, you haven't." She turned away. Didn't move from him, but he felt as if he were suddenly out in the cold. "Why is this so important?" She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I've always felt like your equal until tonight. You're from a different world than mine. You've seen me aching and vulnerable. You gave me so much pleasure I thought I'd die from it. And now..." "You want to see me the same way," he said. "Yes." "I want to be inside you so badly, Sabrina, I'm willing to say whatever it takes to get you back to my room. But I don't know if I'll be able to let you take control." "Is it a big issue for you?" He didn't want to tell her but, hell, the fact they were having this conversation was probably giving her plenty of indication. "Bigger than you'll understand."
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"Tell me." "Hell, woman, I don't want to talk. This is our only night together." Her eyes misted and she looked away. "I know. Maybe that's why it's so important to me to keep this equal." He rubbed her shoulder. He wanted to hug her to him but truly he needed to be buried deep inside her before he could do anything other than react like an instinctual man around her. Even her scent taunted him with each humid breeze that blew. Did he want to let her go? Was he willing to be vulnerable to her? "Ah, hell," he said, drawing her back into his arms. She held herself stiffly until he bent and dropped a feather kiss on her nape. She relaxed back against him. "Why are you making this so complicated? We only have this one night." "Why do we only have this one night? I know we live apart but..." She pivoted in his arms, not leaving him, just turning. Her slender fingers rested against his chest. "Do I not fit in your world?" "No, you don't," he said. The words were the truth. She didn't fit into his world. She rocked it. She made the normal world look like an alien landscape and he knew if it wasn't for the guarantee of only one night he wouldn't be here now. Because Sabrina made him feel and experience emotions that scared him. "Then you have a choice to make," she said. "I've already made it," he said. Realizing that she wasn't going to let him keep her an arm's length away set him free. For this one night he wanted to forget his calm controlled life and just feel. "Very good," she said. But the wicked gleam in her eye couldn't hide the sadness underneath. He wanted to reassure her but couldn't. Wanted to offer her comfort but didn't. Wanted to show her that she was worlds above the others he knew and decided that was one thing he could do. "I'm yours," he said. She took his lapels and lifted herself on tiptoe. Kissing him the way they do in dirty movies. Her tongue in his mouth, her hands on his butt blocking out everything except the lust that had been raging silently while they'd discussed everything and nothing. "I have plans for you, Max. Plans that I can only put into motion with you." "I'm intrigued." "When I'm done with you, you will be satiated." "Promises, promises," he said lightly, but inside he quaked. That other part of himself, the one that he hid under his control, wasn't a man he was sure of and he hoped he'd be able to let her have what she wanted. Hoped he'd be able to experience a night in her arms and then do what he had to do. Do what was necessary if he was going to have any peace for the rest of his life. He was going to have to walk away and not look back. "You still with me?" "Yes."
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"Then follow me," she said, leading him by the hand. And like a tempted man, he did. Chapter Six Sabrina knew next to nothing about seduction, but Max inspired her. Her body still pulsed from her earlier climax but she was empty deep inside. Empty in a way she'd been most of her life, but she sensed that Max could be the man to finally fill that need. She led him to her room because she was a coward, and leaving him during the night was something she didn't think she could do. Earlier she'd made her plans. She had the trappings of romance in her room. A huge sage scented pillar candle that reminded her of the outdoors. About six of her own soft feather pillows from home because she liked a lot of pillows. And lastly, a box of condoms she'd bought from the hotel gift shop that afternoon. "Close your eyes," she said to Max. He did. She entered the room and lit the sage candle, as well as a few smaller tea lights she'd brought with her. Having only one night together meant for her that the fantasy had to be real. And Max was too much a realist to pretend to feel something for a woman he'd be leaving in the morning. His nostrils flared and she wondered if sage reminded him of the outdoors, of the time they'd spent together, the way it did for her. She knew where he was concerned she was weak, so she straightened her backbone and took his wrist, leading him into her room. She nudged him down on the bed and crossed the room to open the French doors, which led to a balcony that overlooked the ocean. "Let's get a few ground rules out of the way." He leaned back on the bed, eyes still closed but looking like a pasha in some harem of old. The feather pillows were piled beneath his back. He adjusted one or two until he was comfortable. Taking control seemed like a distant dream. "I'm all ears," he said. "I will tell you what to do ? you will do it." "I believe I understand, darling." She wouldn't have guessed that one could be dominant from a resting position, but he was. "Open your eyes and get up from the bed." He did as she asked and she realized this was never going to work. She longed to see him naked but ordering him to do anything beyond that was something she couldn't do. "Max." Damn, her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. Crossing the room toward her he stopped only when his chest brushed against hers. Each inhalation of breath caused a riot to her senses. She needed him. "Yes?"
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"This love slave thing. I can't do what I'd originally planned." "I want to be inside you, Sabrina," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Uh...could I order you to make love to me?" She wanted to add, like a woman you love, but didn't. "That would make me the happiest man alive. Is that what you want?" She nodded. He lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. He placed her in the center and stepped back. The light of the candles played over his skin. The high planes of his cheekbones and his square jaw appeared stark. "This isn't going to be a slow steady seduction. I can't wait that long. I can promise you pleasure so intense you'll never forget it or me." He stripped off his clothes, not with finesse and flare as he'd done earlier on the balcony when removing his shirt. His movements were quick and jerky, his objective was clear. Nudity ? now. His shirt, jacket, and tie were cast aside. His hands went to the fastening of his pants. She reached for the side zipper of her dress, as he kicked off his shoes. "No, leave on your clothing," he said, toeing off his socks. He pushed his pants and boxers down his legs and stood in front of her magnificently naked. His chest was hard and sculpted. Each rib delineated by hard muscle. Her gaze followed the line of hair on his chest that narrowed and tapered until she found the part of him she craved. Her most feminine flesh clenched. She wanted him inside her now. She craved him. She lifted her arms toward him as he knelt on the bed and leaned over her. His mouth took hers in a deep hungry kiss. His tongue thrusting deep in her mouth, curling around her own and tickling the roof of her mouth. She moaned and tried to reciprocate but was powerless to do so. His large hands held her head still for the kiss. The rest of his body didn't touch hers. She felt the heat from his skin but at a distance. She twisted, trying to bring their bodies in contact and succeeded for only a minute. He lifted his head from hers, his gray eyes intense in the flickering candlelight. The ocean breeze blew into the room, stirring the embers of the fire burning in them both. "What do you want?" "Everything," she said. He lowered the side zipper of her dress. Freed her arms from the spaghetti straps and then lowered her bodice. Her nipples were tight and hard. She wanted his mouth on them again. Wanted to feel that fierce suckling again but instead he lowered his furry chest to her torso, resting against her. His weight was still supported by his strong arms. She moaned and shifted beneath him. Trying desperately to press her breasts against his warmth. "More?" he asked. "Yes," she said. He rotated his upper body, keeping a light contact with her hardened nipples. She liked that he knew his body well enough to wait for her. But she wanted him writhing and craving more the same way she did. She scraped her fingernails down his back, stopping only when she reached his muscled buttocks. She held him firmly and pulled him down onto her body. At last she felt him hot and hard against her entrance. Blocked by the barrier of her silk dress and panties.
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She wanted to touch him. Needed to feel him alive and pulsing in her hand. She reached between their bodies, to enclose him in her hand. He moaned deep in his throat and sat back on his heels. "Spread your knees," she said. He followed her command. She stroked him from root to crown and back again. His throat corded and she knew she had brought him closer to the edge. He reached between them and pushed her dress and underwear down her legs. Sabrina kicked the clothing from the bed. Max grabbed the box of condoms from the bedside table and quickly sheathed himself in one. "Now," he said. She could only nod, her throat too tight to speak. He surged up her body and flowed over her. A warm blanket of masculinity. He tested her readiness with one finger and then two, stretching her body's entrance with a gentle touch. "Hold on to me," he said. She did. Wrapped her arms and legs around him as he slid into her. He was large. Larger than any man she'd had before, filling her completely. He paused as if sensing her body adjusting to him. Then he tipped her head back so their eyes met. He didn't say a word, just watched her as he began to move. His hips thrusting into hers, his chest rubbing against hers. His soul reaching out to hers and catching her up in a delicious ride that went beyond the physical and into the realm of spiritual. She felt herself building again toward climax. Max's breathing was heavy and his hands settled on her hips, lifting her higher for his possession. He thrust deeper, harder, and she felt the end nearing. He drove deeper than he'd been before and light burst inside her head. Every muscle in her body contracted. Max shouted his release and then collapsed on her. Sabrina loved the feel of his weight on her, crushing her into the mattress. He rolled to his side after a moment, taking her with him. She bit her lip to keep from saying the words she desperately needed to. To keep from asking him if he had to leave tomorrow and why one night was all that she could have with the man of her dreams. "I don't want to return to Chicago in the morning," he said. No guts, no glory, she thought. "Uh, Max?" "Yes, darling?" he said, brushing a feather-soft kiss against her head. "Do you have to leave? Does this have to end now?" Chapter Seven Max slid from the bed, picking up his trousers on the way to the balcony. Behind him, he heard the bed linens rustle as Sabrina moved. His mind supplied an image of her bare skin, tousled hair, and troubled eyes He'd been telling her half-truths since the day they'd met and now it was time to make a decision. While it was true that she didn't fit into his life, he knew that she'd never understand that this week and this one night of passion made him long for things he knew he wasn't meant to have.
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He paced to the balcony railing and braced his weight on his hands. The ocean looked vast and endless beneath them. For a moment he was tempted to say the hell with it, take Sabrina, and sail away from civilization. He wasn't sure he could trust something that happened so quickly. Right now it felt as if he'd never be able to get enough of Sabrina. He'd never experienced this depth of emotions before. It frightened him as little else had in life. "I didn't want to ruin the rest of the night," she said after a long pause, her voice sounding strained. Those words struck him like a knife in the back. Sabrina didn't have the barriers for this kind of thing. A onenight stand, Max decided, should only be conducted with a woman he didn't like and respect, and that sure as hell wasn't the case with Sabrina. He wasn't prepared to take responsibility for her hurt and disappointment. Not when he was mired in the same troubled emotional minefield himself. "You didn't," he said, half turning toward her and lifting his arm. She came to him, burrowed close against his warmth. She wore only his dress shirt with one button fastened. She was temptation itself and for the first time he understood what Adam felt in Eden all those years ago. "I thought it would be easier than this," she said after a few minutes. He'd thought so, too. Somehow saying goodbye to her was the one thing he'd never imagined being hard. "I'm probably being too sappy," she said. "No, you're not." She glanced up at him. "You keep surprising me." "In what way?" "You're not like the men I know. You asked me for advice, actually listened to me, put my pleasure before your own...you are making it really hard to remember the fantasy doesn't exist." Her hair curled over his arm. He liked the sensation of that silky mass against his bare skin. Longing to take her back to bed and love her until the world went away, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Love?" he asked. He knew the answer without her saying a word. Could tell by the way she rested her head right over his heart. She shrugged. He could only guess that she had the same roiling emotions in her as he did. Possibly she was afraid to take the chance and end up hurt, too. He'd never loved a person. He cared for his parents but he'd always been too driven, too determined to make it on his own to really let them inside. And they'd always been remote ? more involved in their own lives than their children's. Only Sabrina had breached those walls and he wasn't sure what to do with her now. "We both wanted only one night," he said, as much to remind himself as her. She glanced up at him. Her brown eyes, dark unfathomable pools of emotion, searched his for answers to unspoken questions. "I've changed my mind."
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Max wasn't so sure. He'd started out this evening because she'd kept him on his toes the past week. Enticing him with her curvy body, zest for living, and love of the outdoors. But somehow he'd never glimpsed the vulnerable woman underneath until now. He wasn't sure he could be strong enough to keep from hurting her. And he knew that their lives wouldn't mesh easily together. He couldn't leave Chicago. And she wouldn't leave Ft. Lauderdale. He couldn't imagine that free spirit cooped up in the city. "Did I speak out of turn?" she asked at last. He stepped back. "I'm not the man you think I am." "You are." "I'm not." "Remember how you told me to see through your eyes? You need to do the same thing." "I can't. I'm not sure you've seen the real me. What if all I can give you is what we've just had?" "There's more in you, Max Harris." "I'm not sure. I'm 35 ? too old to change my ways." "Even on the chance of a lifetime." "We've only known each other less than a week." She nodded, crossing her arms over her middle, like she was protecting herself. Damn. He wanted to be the one to keep from hurting her. "I understand," she said. He doubted it. She was the one woman he wanted more than anything in the world but he couldn't risk seeing disillusionment in her eyes. And he knew she'd be disappointed in the life he had to offer her. A life that consisted of long, cold winters and more time spent indoors than out. A life filled from dawn to midnight with work and meetings. A life filled with a man who could never express his emotions. "Come back to bed," she said. There was a sadness in her eyes and her body. "I don't think that's a good idea." "You promised me this night." He followed her back to the bed. Made love to her through the night like a man who'd been told he'd die in the morning. As the first fingers of dawn crept across the room, he slid into her warm luscious body from behind. Holding her tight against him, not taking time to grab a condom, needing this one last remembrance of her in his memory for years to come. When their breathing stilled he got out of bed and dressed quickly before he gave in and stayed. Sabrina watched him from the bed, large brown eyes tracking his every move. "I'm not going to wait for you forever, Max. But if you decide to take a chance on living and loving, call me."
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Chapter Eight In the six long weeks since she'd left Amelia Island, Sabrina had adjusted to a different way of life. Though she still loved Max and missed him, she'd grown. And she had the added bonus of a new life growing inside her. She only wished he'd been able to believe in the very thing she'd disdained for so long. She'd never expected to feel swamped with emotion the way she had. She'd never expected to stumble over the man of her dreams on a luxury vacation. And the very last thing she'd expected was to get pregnant with his child. There was no mystery as to when she'd conceived. She remembered Max sliding into her that last time ? the one time that night that he hadn't worn a condom. The New Moon Surf Shop, her beach rental place, thrived. Spring had come and it seemed everything was in bloom. But this year the scent of orange blossoms and the sight of tanned college men weren't cheering her up. She walked on the beach every day at sunset after closing up the shop. It gave her a feeling of peace at the end of the day. A time for her to commune with her thoughts, and with the life within her. A man walked toward her, interrupting her thoughts. As he came closer, she realized that he looked like Max ? so much so that her heart almost stopped. Then her heart clenched and she knew that it was him. Why had he come back now? She'd tried to contact him through the hotel on Amelia Island but they'd refused to give her his address. She'd resigned herself to happy memories and never seeing him again. And having his baby. "Sabrina," he said, stopping right in front of her. "Max, what are you doing here?" "I..." He couldn't possibly know about her pregnancy. She'd only had it verified this afternoon. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch his face. He looked tired and his eyes were strained. He needed her, she thought. He'd probably never admit it, but she'd been good for him. "This isn't a vacation anymore," she said quietly. Still grappling with the fact that he was here when she needed him. The pregnancy had been a shock to her. And though she was excited to be a mom she was a little scared at the thought of doing it all herself. "We can't have one more night," she said. "Hell, I don't want one more night. I want all your nights." She sucked in her breath, waiting. But he didn't say anything else. Maybe she was dreaming. She'd had a vivid image of Max last night in her bed. But, of course, that had been more sensual in nature. Seeing him again made her remember other things about him she'd forgotten, like the way his mouth lifted a little on the left when he spoke. Would their child do that, too? "Damn. I never thought this would be so hard." He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. She remembered how rich it had felt under her touch. She started to speak but he covered her lips with his fingers, shaking his head. A strange excitement was singing through her veins.
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"It took me about two days to realize I was wrong in leaving you, but I'm stubborn so I didn't admit it until you'd checked out of the resort. It took me another three weeks of pleading, ordering, and bullying before I could convince them I wasn't a stalker and I needed your address." "You're not stalking me?" she asked, with a little laugh, afraid to see where this was leading. "Nope. I'm catching you." She smiled slowly, as she realized why Max was here. "Good." He grabbed her in his arms, holding her tight against him, pressing small kisses into her hair. "The past month without you has been the longest of my life. I'm not going back to Chicago without you." Chicago sounded scary. She was still adjusting to the fact that Max loved her and she was having his baby, moving across the country would be fine with Max by her side. "I'm not the same girl I was on Amelia Island." "You're not?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. She cupped his jaw with her hands and looked up at him. "No. I want the fairy tale, Max." "White knight and the whole shebang?" "I'm afraid so." "I don't know if I can do that. I'm not one of those guys who can talk about his emotions. I never have been. Coming here is a big deal for me." "Oh, Max," she said, touching his face. "It is for me, too. But I'm through running and hiding from what I want in life." "What do you want, darling?" "I want you by my side as my husband. I want to be your equal and I want you to be mine." "I want the same thing." "I love you, Max." He hugged her close, his hands sweeping down her back. Holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. He did love her, she thought, happiness spilling through her. "I'm so glad. I knew this would work out." If he'd slapped her she wouldn't have been more shocked. She pulled away from him. "Nothing's worked out." Confusion knit his brow. In his eyes she thought she saw something more than confusion. Mybe desperation. "But we want the same thing." "No, I need to live with a man who cares as deeply for me as I do for him. A man who can tell me how he feels." "What difference does that make? I'm here for you. I'm devoted to you. Will words really make that big a difference?"
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"Yes," she said. She wrinkled her nose to keep from crying. Ah, hell, she had to get away before she took him back. She started down the beach, running as her emotions got the better of her. But it was too late. Running from her emotions wasn't working. She stopped, even as she heard Max running to catch up to her. She sobbed as the tears burst through. Losing Max on Amelia Island was one thing. She'd expected him to leave. But he'd come back and in a few minutes given her hope that they could have the dream. That they could be a family. She knew for the baby she should stay but she didn't want to raise her child with a man who couldn't confess his deepest feelings to her, who couldn't open his heart to his mate. Max's hand fell heavily on her shoulder and he tugged her around to face him. "You can't leave." "Give me a reason to stay," she said, wiping at the tears making hot tracks down her cheeks. He bent his knee until he knelt at her feet in the sand. Holding her hand in his he looked up at her and her heart stopped beating for a second. Staring up at her he gave his head a rueful shake. "Dammit, lady, you rocked my world. You made me question things about myself that I've always taken for granted. I'm sorry I couldn't say those words to you before, but you have to know I feel them." "Do you think you could learn to say them? Maybe with practice?" "For you, Sabrina, I'll try," he said, smiling sexily. "I love you, Max." She knew the depth of her love. It was stronger than anything she'd ever experienced and she knew that Max felt it, too. Could see it in his gray eyes. He took a deep breath and tugged her into his arms. "Do you promise not to leave me?" Those words cut past all her defenses. "You know I won't." He took a deep breath and pulled her even closer in his arms. She felt the words more than heard them. "I love you, Sabrina. I can't imagine life without you," he said, his words a raspy whisper against her ear. Hugging her around the waist with a fierce desperation she wouldn't have thought him capable of. "Me, too," she said, crying again, but this time because of the fierce happiness sweeping through her. She realized she hadn't told him about the baby yet. How would he feel? Before she could speak, he lowered his head, kissing her like she was water and he'd been in the desert a long, long time. She realized that they'd been searching for each other. Each of them flying through life with only half a wing until they found each other. "Uh, Max?" she asked, when he lifted his head. "Ready to go someplace more private?" he said with a smile. "Yes," she said with a laugh. "I'm not going to let you out of bed for the entire weekend," he said, wickedly.
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"I'll hold you to it, but first I have to tell you something." "Good news?" She wrinkled her brow. Did he suspect? "Yes." "A baby?" "How did you know?" "I think my body knew I wasn't letting you go way before my mind figured it out," he said with a laugh. "Oh, Max!" He whooped and lifted her off the ground, spinning her in his arms. Sabrina held on tight. She'd found her once in a lifetime man and she wasn't letting go.
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The Spy Who Loved Her by Marie Ferrarella Schoolteacher by day, avid mystery fan by night, Marla O'Connor is swept into romance and adventure by a tall, dark, and dangerous stranger. Will she escape with her life ? and her heart ? intact? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| Chapter One "No, I don't want to meet him," Marla O'Connor told her best friend for the third time as the elevator doors of the St. Charles Hotel closed. Miraculously, given the number of people staying at the San Francisco hotel, the car was empty. With luck, she'd reach the 12th floor in a minimum of time, with a minimum of words from Barbara. Barbara and her fiancé, Stewart, were staying on 11. "I don't want to meet anyone. This is a teachers' convention, Barbara, not one big singles bar. I came here to learn, not date." A pert brunette, half a head shorter than her friend, Barbara frowned. "The two are not mutually exclusive, you know. All I'm saying is that you have to keep your eyes and options open." It was an old tug-of-war, one Marla engaged in with not only Barbara but, it seemed, every female relative in her family tree, including her three very-much-married sisters. "I'll take care of my own options, thank you very much. And as for my eyes, they're going to be open on this book." She held up the hardback she'd purchased in the hotel gift shop. "I'd say something here, but it would be X-rated." Barbara glanced at the title. Mystery at Midnight. "Honestly, Marla, you're an English teacher. That's pure pulp." Not to me, Marla thought. To her it was pure escape. She shrugged, tucking the book back under her arm. "So I'm letting my mind go slumming. There's nothing like a good mystery to get you stimulated." Barbara's smile was positively wicked. "I can think of something else ? to get you stimulated." Marla stopped her before she could elaborate. "I'd rather curl up with a good book than a bad man." Barbara's smile widened. "That all depends on your definition of bad." "Does the word lemon mean anything to you?" "Let's see," Barbara pretended to think as the floors slowly passed. "Lemonade sipped slowly at poolside while some gorgeous hunk of a man is gently rubbing suntan lotion on my warm body." Marla could only sigh, shaking her head. "You are hopeless." "No, ever hopeful." Barbara grasped Marla's arm imploringly. "Marla, we're in the big city here. This is our chance to kick up our heels." "You kick, I'll read." Barbara sighed in defeat. "Then you won't meet Stewart's friend?" "Not tonight I won't." Marla had all the excitement she wanted between the covers of the new mystery. "I'm just going to take a nice hot shower, call room service, and crack open this book." "You're passing up the chance of cracking open champagne instead."
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Barbara, never one to give up easily, had already elaborated her dinner plans with Stewart and his friend at length. "Afraid so." The elevator stopped on eight to pick up two people. Marla moved to the side. "Sometimes I don't know why we're still friends," Barbara whispered to her. "If you're not careful, you're going to turn into Mrs. Everett." The name from their mutual past pulled up no fond memories. "I promise that before I turn into a dour old assistant principal I'll go out with Stewart's friend." Barbara looked at her reprovingly. "Dour old assistant principals are made, not born." The door opened for Barbara's floor. The other two people got off. "Go." Marla all but shooed Barbara out. "Have fun. I hope you have a great dinner. I'll be perfectly happy alone in my hotel room. After listening to all those long-winded seminars I could use a little diversion." Barbara held the door open with her hand. "My point exactly." "A diversion that didn't try to get into my bed at the end of the evening just because I absently smiled at it over dinner." Barbara shook her head. "You really don't know what you're missing." "Then write me a note about it ? fifty words or less. Remember, spelling counts." "Yes, Miss O'Connor." Barbara released the door and it closed. Marla laughed to herself as she stepped off the elevator on her floor. Barbara meant well, but she just didn't understand. Barbara found it easy to meet men, to strike up conversations and be vivacious. She, on the other hand, became instantly tongue-tied when confronted with a prospective date. It was only when she was living vicariously, imaging herself the heroine of a wonderful novel, that she knew just what to say, that her conversation was pithy instead of pathetic. She positively shone in the English literature class she taught at Bedford High. But her light extinguished when it came to face-to-face encounters, especially with goodlooking men. Maybe someday, she mused, someone like Rick Arrowsmith would come into her life. The blurb about the hero in the suspense thriller she'd picked up sounded like everything she wanted in a man. Tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious, with a lethally sexy mouth and piercing eyes that radiated heat and desire. All that and a mind that was razor sharp. What a combination. If she ever found a man like Rick Arrowsmith ? with a sigh, Marla put her card into the slot of her hotel door and slid it down, then turned the latch. The lights were on inside the room. Funny, she didn't remember leaving them on. Maybe housekeeping had come in. But there was no reason for them to do that, she thought. This was her first day here ? she hadn't even unpacked, much less rumpled her bed. There'd only been time to throw her suitcase into the closet before dashing off to the first lecture. Bemused, she stepped out of her shoes and tossed her new book on the bed. She could have sworn she heard a shower running. Had to be in the room next to hers. You'd think an elegant hotel like the St. Charles would have walls that were thicker than that, she thought.
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Marla debated calling room service immediately, but then decided against it. She didn't want the waiter arriving while she was in the shower and she planned to be in there for a very long time. There was something incredibly soothing about having the hot water cascade all over your body. Like a man's hands, gently gliding along your skin. She pulled herself out of her mental reverie before she sank in too deeply. Unbuttoning her blouse, she pulled it out of the waistband of her slender, dark skirt and walked to the bathroom. The sound of running water grew more audible. She supposed the bathrooms were positioned back-to-back to save on plumbing fixtures. Opening the door, she felt the mist first. It surrounded her like a veil that then slowly lifted. A second later she saw the outline of a naked male body on the other side of the translucent glass. Chapter Two The scream froze in her throat like a solid piece of ice refusing to melt. Marla took a shaky step back on rubbery legs, feeling for the doorknob. Sneaking into her vision peripherally, the scattered clothes on the floor registered. Male clothes. To go along with the very male body in her shower. His form was visible through the translucent glass. Specific details might be blotted out, but she could definitely make out the essence of the man. And his essence was nothing short of powerful. Marla swallowed. The solid block of ice remained lodged where it was. She was in the wrong room. The thought desperately tattooed itself through her brain. That had to be it. She was in the wrong room. All the rooms looked alike. That would explain why the lights had been on. But not, she realized almost instantly, how she'd managed to gain entry into the hotel room ? with her card key. With all the different combinations being constantly scrambled, that would mean that the entry codes on her card had to have somehow come out matching the ones to the room she was in. It was a hell of a coincidence, defying astronomical odds. Odds she wasn't up to calculating at the present moment. The moment melted away as the man behind the glass suddenly became aware of her presence and grabbed for something that looked as if it was perched on a ledge above the showerhead. The next second, as her heart rate accelerated to a number that surpassed any records known to science, the glass door was pushed back and she found herself looking at the barrel of a gun. A gun that was pointed right at her chest. The gun barrel was almost as sleek as the wet, dark-haired man pointing it. The frozen scream melted, emerging as a loud gasp by the time it passed Marla's lips. She wasn't sure if the gasp was a reaction to the weapon or the man. Both looked equally lethal from where she was standing. Sharp blue eyes swiftly scrutinized every inch of the room before returning to her. "What are you doing here?" She was trying very hard not to give in to a growing sense of panic. "I ? I thought this was my room ? Twelve-twenty." Even as she said it, the hope that she was in the wrong room evaporated. She specifically remembered seeing the numbers on the door before inserting the entry card into the lock.
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Not a muscle on the angular face moved. "Twelve-twenty's supposed to be empty." "It's not." Her throat had become utterly dry. She found herself longing for the lump of ice she'd imagined there several hundred heartbeats ago. "There was a mix-up at the front desk and the hotel gave me this one." Her mind searched for an explanation. The room had been a last-minute switch. Maybe it hadn't been properly recorded and that was why he was here now. With a gun. Naked. "I can ? I can go," she offered, taking another step back. She froze when she heard the safety being released. "Stay where you are." "Okay." Her voice sounded almost normal to her ears, an incredible feat since within her chest her heart was shifting to and fro erratically like a runner trying to avoid a sniper bullet ? which at the moment seemed chillingly appropriate to her. "But could you please, um ?" Unable to put her request into a complete sentence, Marla lowered her eyes to his torso, but only for the briefest of seconds. Her meaning, she hoped, was clear if unspoken. Raising her eyes again, she saw it. The smile. Actually, it was only a glimmer of one. But to her it was even more unsettling than the weapon and his unclad, stone-hard body with its sheen of droplets slowly making their way to his feet. Somewhere within the confines of a museum in Europe, Michelangelo's David was stepping down off his pedestal, hanging his head in defeat at being usurped. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe she'd fallen asleep while reading her book and was even now, lying on the bed. It was a silly thought, but it sustained her for all of half a minute until the fogged mirror sent part of her reflection back at her, dashing the desperate thought. She wasn't on the bed ? she was here, in the bathroom, trying not to look at the best-built man God had ever created. "Sorry," he apologized in a voice that, at least for the moment, sounded far less threatening. "I forgot I was naked." He'd be the only one who forgot, although if she were honest he was also the only one who was sorry. She tried to draw oxygen into her lungs as her gaze darted anywhere but at her cleansed intruder while he reached for a towel. Quickly, he secured the towel around his waist, moving so fast that his weapon seemed to remain trained on her almost the entire time. And then it came to her. With the realization's advent, Marla straightened the backbone which had been in serious jeopardy of melting. This had to be a put-on, she decided, a put-on cashing in on her single-minded romance with mystery novels. "Barbara put you up to this, didn't she?" "Barbara?" he repeated in a puzzled tone of voice. Empowered by her theory and managing to ignore the contours of the glistening man less than three feet away from her, Marla felt on solid ground. "Very good, act confused." The pieces came to her in a rush. "You've got to be Stewart's friend. The one she was talking about in the elevator. I don't know how you managed to get into my room, but my answer's still the same. I don't like blind dates."
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Although in light of what she'd seen she had to admit that the scale was seriously beginning to tip in the direction of this particular blind date. "Neither do I." He cocked his head as if straining to listen to something in the other room. "Are you alone?" A sinking sensation took hold of her stomach. This wasn't her would-be blind date. He was exactly what he seemed ? a man with a gun. Panic produced her next answer. "No, I'm here with people, lots of people." He motioned her out of the bathroom. There was no one in her room and no sign that there had been. Humor curved his mouth. "Are they tiny people?" "No, they just stepped out. To get ice," she tacked on, her mind working in fits and starts. "Who stepped out?" He moved around the room like smoke, infiltrating everything, assuring himself that they really were alone. "Husband, lover?" "Yes." The answer was breathless. Bending, he quickly checked under the bed. "Which is it? Husband or lover?" Stupid, she upbraided herself. "Both. He's my husband and my lover." He looked at her face then and she could feel his eyes touching her. "I'd say he was a lucky man. And an understanding one to let you go out on blind dates." Marla closed her eyes, feeling like an idiot. "You're alone, aren't you?" Her eyes flew open, alert. "Yes, but I can scream." "I wouldn't advise it." At the window, he drew the curtain back and looked down at the street. "Damn." Letting the curtain drop again, he looked at her. She thought he was deciding on something. She hoped it wasn't whether or not to kill her. "What's your name?" "Marla O'Connor." Maybe Barbara would come to drag her to dinner, she prayed, all the while watching the man's every move. "Well, Marla O'Connor, it looks like I'm going to need your help." His weapon remained pointed at her. Chapter Three Panic clawed at her throat. It took Marla a second before she found her tongue, another second before she could use it. "Exactly why do you need my help?" Many things suggested themselves to her, none of them good. "And just who are you?" He took a step toward her, admiring the way she held her ground despite the fear in her eyes. He wished he could be completely honest with her, but he'd learned that honesty had its price and it was one he couldn't afford to pay right now. "Who I am is unimportant. As to why I need you ?" His eyes slowly washed over her. "At another time or place, my answer would be completely different. But for the moment my situation supersedes any notions of wining and dining a beautiful woman and spending the night getting lost in her ample charms."
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The many bad things Marla had been worrying about temporarily faded into the background. "Beautiful woman?" No one had ever called her that before ? if she didn't count her father, who'd been obligated to say that to his ugly duckling of a daughter. A sexy smile lifted a corner of his mouth. He really would have liked to linger with her, to entertain both of them in the variety of ways he'd learned to pleasure a woman. But even now they were closing in on him, and there was little time left. Perhaps none. "As beautiful as twilight along a Tahitian shore, but this is no time to hunt for a compliment, Marla O'Connor." He got down to business. "I need your charge card." The roller-coaster ride she was on came to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing her from the lead car. Anger usurped common sense. "A robbery? This is a robbery? Aren't you a little underdressed for a robber?" He supposed it probably sounded that way, but he didn't have the time, or the freedom, for elaborate explanations. "No, this is a crisis and I'm underdressed because everything I was wearing was a potential tracking device." He'd wet his clothes and his shoes down in an attempt to short-circuit the devices. Technology being what it was, he had no idea where the tracking device might have been hidden or if there was more than one. "Tracking device?" Horror and confusion danced together through her. The only tracking device she could think of was the kind given to people under house arrest. "Are you a criminal?" There were times when the line that separated one side from the other was finer than he liked, but saying so would only frighten her. "No, I'm one of the good guys." He held out his hand. "Now, the charge card, please." Marla wasn't sure exactly what possessed her, but she raised her chin. "I know Tae Kwan Do." He doubted it, but he humored her. "Of course you do. And I know seven ways to kill a man, none of which requires noise." She swallowed. "Seven?" "Seven." He took another step toward her, cutting the distance between them down to almost zero. "The card, please." She struggled not to tremble. There had to be ground rules of some sort. "No." He was doing her a favor, asking. In his place, Wallace would have ransacked the room until he found her purse, but he preferred hanging onto the notion that he was civilized. At least, whenever possible. His voice was dangerous. "No?" Her escape was blocked by the bed and her knees almost buckled when she backed into it. "No, not until you tell me your name and what's going on." He shook his head, random drops of water falling from his black hair. "You're either very brave or very stupid, Marla O'Connor. I'm hoping it's very brave. It might come in handy." He paused, whether to debate or create, she didn't know. And then he answered her. In part. "My name is Erik Carter. I can't tell you what this is about, but if I don't show up tomorrow at precisely two o'clock on the Golden Gate Bridge to meet a certain person, some very bad things are going to happen to some very nice people." This time he raised his weapon, cocking it. "The card, please."
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She had no choice. *** Marla could feel her pulse throbbing wildly in her head. It felt as if her entire body was clenched, waiting for the knock on the door. Erik Carter, or whoever he really was, had ordered clothing from the hotel's men's store. At least she'd be able to describe him to the police, right down to his shoe size. If she made it through this alive. She'd heard Erik give the clerk his exact measurements. His mistake, she thought with a flash of triumph. Her fingers closed over the tiny square of tissue she held in her palm. Marla fervently hoped that the dampness wouldn't dissolve the message she'd written using her eyebrow pencil. It was her only hope. When the knock came, she jumped, her eyes darting toward Erik as her heart slammed against her rib cage. His whole torso was rigid, poised for action. Something inside her began turning to room-temperature Jell-O. He nodded at her and she asked in a quavering voice, "Who is it?" The voice on the other side of the door answered, "Renee Russell's." The clothier. "Showtime, Marla." Weapon at the ready, Erik motioned her to the door, then positioned himself so that he would be behind it when it opened. Just as she reached for the doorknob, he stopped her. "Oh, one more thing." If her heart pounded any harder, she was certain it was going to break out of her chest. "What?" His eyes indicated her other hand. "Give me the note in your hand," he whispered. "The one you wrote on toilet paper in the bathroom." Her mouth went dry. "I don't ?" "Don't insult me, Marla." "How ? how did you know?" "I've been at this for a while." With his free hand, he beckoned for the note. "Time is of the essence." A frustrated hiss escaped her lips as she surrendered the note. Quickly, Erik perused the scrap of paper. "Help, I'm being held prisoner." Shredding it, he shook his head. "Really, Marla, a high school lit. teacher should have done better than that. The deliveryman would have thought it was a joke. Now open the door." Signing for the packages, Marla silently tried to convey her dilemma to the man from Renee Russell's and succeeded, she knew, only in making the clerk think she was trying to flirt with him. There was no other reason why he'd pointed to his wedding ring with a sad smile on his face as he left. The instant she closed the door, Erik took the packages from her and began ripping them open. "Sorry your little pantomime didn't work." She stared at him. Was the man clairvoyant on top of everything else? "How did you ?" "One step ahead, Marla. I've always got to stay one step ahead." His mouth quirked as he dropped the towel and began getting dressed. "Besides, it helps to have a mirror on the opposite wall."
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Startled by his casualness, Marla barely had time to avert her eyes before the towel hit the floor. She could feel her face burning. The burn intensified as she heard Erik laugh softly under his breath. "Modesty. Not something I often encounter these days. Nice to know it still exists. There, you can turn around now." She did, desperately reaching for anger and trying to cloak herself in it. It wasn't easy being angry at a man who was devastatingly handsome and looking at her with eyes that had sin written all over them. Marla wet her lips. "Well, you've got what you wanted. Now will you please leave?" "I fully intend to." He scooped up his old clothes and deposited them in the Renee Russell boxes, then pushed them into the closet. With luck, if the monitoring device did happen to still work, this would buy him some time. Closing the door, he looked at her. "Take whatever you think you might need." That sinking feeling was beginning to burrow its way through her stomach again. "Why?" Erik was already taking her hand in his. "Because you're coming with me." Chapter Four Marla's mouth dropped open. "I'm what?" "Coming with me." Crossing to the closet, Erik pushed open the door and found what he was looking for on the floor beside her suitcase. A purse that doubled as a backpack. Unceremoniously dumping its contents on the bed, he quickly began refilling it with still-damp objects from the pockets of his wet clothing. "As in now." "Oh no, I'm not." She grabbed a lipstick that was about to roll off the bed, then glared at him in exasperation. "What are you doing?" "Getting prepared." Though his expression hadn't changed, he said the words so grimly Marla felt she was being placed on notice. Awful things were about to happen. She grabbed his arm, her words tumbling out one after the other. "Look, you can intimidate me into giving you my charge card, because that's only money. But this is my life we're talking about and I've only got one, so no, thank you very much. I'm staying right here." Finished, she dragged in a deep breath. He glanced into the backpack to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. The high-priced, innocuous toys deposited inside had saved his skin more than once. Erik spared her a look that said he wasn't about to brook an argument. "It's your life I'm trying to save." Yeah, right. Stubbornly, she folded her arms. "And just how are you going to do that by taking me with you?" "Because if I leave you here and the men who are after me find you, they'll think you're with me. More important, they'll think you know ?" He broke off and shrugged. "You don't want that to happen." Quickly, he stuffed her book into the backpack and caught the incredulous look on her face. "In case you want to read later." The man was insane. In one breath, he was talking about her imminent death; in the next he was packing reading matter for her. Following him to the door, she clung to the obvious. "But I don't know anything." He paused by the door. It'd be easier just leaving her behind, but despite his years of service he still had a conscience. And he knew what his opponents were capable of. Things a woman like Marla O'Connor
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couldn't begin to fathom. "They won't believe you, and when they're through with you, you won't believe you." Marla raised her chin, hoping her voice wouldn't give her away. "You're just trying to scare me." "How am I doing?" Cracking open the door, he looked down the hall then quickly pulled it shut again. Damn, he'd seen two of them on the far end of the floor. Marla jumped when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her away from the door. "Congratulations, you've just succeeded in scaring me half to death." "Just as long as I manage to keep the other half of you alive, I'll be glad." His mind racing, he came up with their only way out. He hoped she was as athletic as she looked. Erik glanced at her feet. "Maybe you'd better put on something without a heel." "I don't own anything without a heel." He blew out a breath. "It figures." Marla's nerves began begetting nerves. He crossed to the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony, dragging her with him. She did not like whatever he was planning. "I thought you said we were leaving." "We are." "The door's that way." She used her free hand to point. "I know." Dropping the backpack to the floor, he pushed open the window with one hand, still holding her with the other. "We're going out this way." She saw him take something out of the backpack that looked like a small remote control. When he aimed it at the railing, a metal hook shot out and wrapped itself around the bar. Some sort of thin cord followed in its wake. This wasn't happening. "Are you crazy? We're twelve stories up." He was more than aware just how far they could fall. But they weren't going to. He hadn't completed what he'd been sent out to do and he was a firm believer in living up to his commitments. It was as simple as that. "They make the balconies strong." "But my knees are weak," she protested, even as he pushed her out onto the balcony. She eyed the gun that he'd shoved into the waistband of his slacks and wondered if she could risk trying to grab it. But if she did, he might push her off the balcony. She had absolutely no idea what he was capable of. Mechanically, he tested the cord. He knew the line was strong enough to support two agile elephants if it came to that. "Just follow my lead. This'll be over before you know it." "That's what I'm afraid of." "Sideways or down?" When she looked at him in confusion, he indicated the two ways they could go ? down one floor or across to the next building. Each seemed equally inaccessible to her unless she suddenly sprouted wings. "Now you decide to be gallant." He looked at her expectantly. "Down." Marla wet her lips as her stomach lurched. "I hope that's not a prophesy."
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"Not today," he promised her. She hung onto that, onto the promise made to her by a madman, though there was no earthly reason why she should. But it helped still her trembling fingers. He went ahead of her, shimmying down the thin line like an Olympic gold-medal winner at his event. "Now you," he called up to her. For a second, she contemplated staying right where she was. Then she heard someone try the knob on the locked door of her hotel room, followed by the sound of a large object crashing against it. Someone was trying to break in. She swung her leg over the railing. "Maybe this is just a bad dream," she muttered under her breath. "Maybe I'll wake up in a minute." "This is real, Marla," Erik shouted. "Hurry." He raised his hands up to her. "Don't worry, I'll catch you. Just remember, don't look down." Too late. Panic was scrambling through her with long, jagged fingernails. The line bit into her palms as she lowered herself. "Why do they always say that?" The breeze from the ocean picked up, billowing her skirt out like a saucy, red mushroom as she began her rapid descent. Just as she was afraid her strength would give out she felt his hands gliding up along her legs as he caught hold of her. A flash of heat went barreling through her like a runaway freight. It only intensified as her body slid against his. An eternity later, her feet touched the balcony floor. Her breath froze where it was. His face inches away from hers, Erik searched it for signs that she was about to break down. He saw none. The woman was gutsier than she thought. "You all right?" Marla swallowed, hoping she wouldn't squeak when she opened her mouth. "I will be, as soon as I catch my breath." No chance of that happening any time soon, she added silently. He grinned at her. "You were great." The backpack was already slung over one shoulder. Erik caught hold of her hand. "Let's go." "Go?" She looked around the suite as he pulled her through it, her heart sinking as she realized that there was no one here. No one to rescue her from this man claiming to be rescuing her. "Just exactly where is it we're going?" How far did he intend to drag her? "People do know I'm here. They're going to come looking for me." Very slowly, Erik cracked open the door and looked out. This time there was no one in sight. He took a chance. Hand to the small of her back, he ushered her out and to the stairwell. "Frankly, at the moment I am less than paralyzed at the thought of a group of teachers hunting me down. And to answer your question, we are going in search of a crowd to get lost in." He smiled at her as he pulled open the stairwell door. "There's safety in numbers." She sincerely hoped so. *** There were two restaurants on the premises, a well-lit establishment which catered to families and a sophisticated bar that echoed of dark blue lights and enticing music. To her surprise, he chose the latter.
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Signaling the hostess, he held up two fingers. A moment later, the woman was leading them into the heart of the place. "I thought you wanted a crowd to get lost in," Marla whispered. "There are people here," he pointed out, keeping a firm hold of her hand. "And enough shadows for us not to stand out." She tried to make out faces as they followed the hostess. Why was it that everyone had taken on a sinister cast? "So we'll be safe?" He'd come to know that was only a relative term. "As safe as is possible." Her stomach tightened another notch. Desperately, she tried to be logical. Marla waited until they were alone in the small booth. "You know, I only have your word for it that there's someone after you. How do I know any of this is true?" He'd wondered when she'd get around to interrogating him. "For the moment, in the interest of staying alive, you're going to have to take that on faith." He knew he was asking a lot. "Besides, why would I climb down a balcony if someone wasn't after me?" She had no answers, only questions. "I don't know, maybe you're a frustrated Sherpa guide, or ?" The rest of her sentence was abruptly stopped. Sliding closer to her in the tiny booth than her own dress, Erik framed her face with his hands and covered her lips with his own. Chapter Five He was kissing her. One minute she was talking, the next, he was kissing. Kissing her as if they'd been together before the first stars had ever been struck in the sky. When dazed surprise gave way to realization, Marla had every intention of pushing him away. But it was hard to push with arms that had gone as limp as overcooked spaghetti. To the best of her knowledge, she'd never been present at a meltdown before. She would have remembered. She was present at one now. Her own. Erik considered himself a consummate professional. Someone who could keep his head in any given situation, even one that threatened to separate that same head from his shoulders. But for just the tiniest particle of a second, he lost track of the tall, distinguished-looking dangerous men he had seen entering the restaurant and focused only on the incredible impact several inches of pliant skin was having on him. It took every bit of his intense, rigorous training to distance himself from the kiss and hone back in on his situation. Their situation. Their lips finally separated, Marla waited until the raging inferno within her settled down into a manageable forest fire. It took that long for air to return to her lungs. "What ? what was that?" She was trying for indignation. She managed a squeak. tty damn hot stuff, the first answer that came into his head, but he replied, "Camouflage."
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Marla stared at him, wondering when the pounding of her heart would cease breaking the sound barrier. "Excuse me?" He leaned in close to her, so close that his breath was singeing her skin. "The men who broke into your room just walked into the restaurant. I didn't want them to see my face." "So you buried it in mine?" "Seemed like the thing to do at the time." She automatically began to turn around to see if she could spot the men he was talking about. The next thing she knew, Erik had her hand again and was bringing her to her feet. "Now what?" His eyes indicated the small, discreet band playing soft music to fall in love by. "Now we dance." This was getting stranger and stranger. "And then what? If we dance well enough, they'll go away and leave us alone?" "No." Deftly, he picked up the backpack, slipping it onto the crook of her arm. She had a feeling they weren't coming back to their table or to the food her empty stomach was anticipating. "If we dance well enough, we'll be able to make it to the kitchen before anyone notices what we're doing." They were on the small dance floor now, mingling with several other couples. Pressing her hand to his chest, Erik slipped his other hand against the small of her back. She felt something hit her hip. Her eyes widened as a warm flush rose from her core and worked its way up to her cheeks. It was all well and good to fantasize about being whisked away by a secret agent man like the one in the book she'd bought, but this wasn't fantasy, this was real. She couldn't make up her mind if she was scared or excited. Or both. All she knew was that her heart was still beating wildly. A languid, sexy smile slipped across his lips. He knew what she was thinking. Very slowly, he moved his head from side to side. "That's your purse getting familiar with you, not me." His smile deepened. "If we get out of this alive, we can see about getting familiar without the purse." She was still fighting off the effects of his kiss. Contact had very nearly short-circuited her brain and she still couldn't think all that clearly. "If we get out of this alive," she heard herself saying, "I'm finding the nearest policeman and having you arrested." He smiled into her eyes, resisting the urge to kiss her again. This was not the time. But he wished like hell it was. "Whatever turns you on, Marla." This wasn't real, not the conversation, not any of it. It couldn't be. And yet... She found herself getting lost in wondering what turned him on, and then gave herself a mental shake. She opened her mouth to say something cool and cutting. "You dance well, but then I guess that's required of a secret agent." Darn, she was too aware of being held in his arms to be cool and cutting. With one eye on his destination, he began directing their steps. The less she knew, the better for both of them. Especially if the two men who were after him succeeded in catching up to them. He glanced back to see if they were watching. They blended in well. Two suave-looking businessmen of slender build. They could have been brothers. The other side picked their operatives well, Erik thought.
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"I'm not a secret agent." She could feel his body heat. Some very erotic things were happening to her. She was on the brink of meltdown again with a man she knew nothing about except that in another life, she would have been willing to spend all of hers with him. "Then what are you?" "Just a public servant." He had to think she was an idiot. "Public servants are sanitation engineers and councilmen, not men who play Tarzan off balconies." He pressed his cheek against her hair. Her perfume curled through his veins, taking a shade of the sharpness from his finely honed edge. "Have it your way." Frustration burrowed in between some very insensible thoughts that included silk sheets and naked torsos. "Don't humor me." The phrase "adorable when mad" played across his mind as he looked at her. Up to his neck in danger, he had the sudden urge to nibble on her earlobe. "Then what?" "Answer me. Tell me one thing that's going on." His eyes partially closed, he slanted his gaze toward the men again. They were looking in his direction. Erik's hand tightened on hers. "Can't. Now very slowly, we're going in that direction." She could see out of the corner of her eye. "That's the bar." "Kitchen's just beyond," he assured her. Once there, they could make a run for it. She still didn't see it. "How do you know that?" He continued to steer them slowly across the floor. The inches were painful, but any faster would attract attention. "Easy. I never go into a place I don't know how to get out of." "Spy by-rules?" He laughed softly, sending a major shiver down her spine. "Actually, that's something Robert De Niro said in a movie once. Sounded like good advice. Now," he whispered against her ear. The next moment she felt herself being pushed urgently toward the far end of the bar, passing several people seated against it. One looked up. And gaped. "Oh my God, Marla, what are you doing here ? wow!" The question ended in an exclamation framed in wonder. Marla craned her neck and saw Barbara on the end stool. Her friend was staring at Erik with deep appreciation. Hope sprang up. "Barbara," Marla called, trying to break free of Erik's grasp. She might as well have tried to bend bare steel in her hands. "I need help." Barbara smiled at her in sincere envy. "Believe me, if I wasn't engaged, I wouldn't hesitate for a second." She lifted her glass in a toast. "Have a great time, you sly devil. Good for you!" she called after Marla as the latter disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors. "Who was that?" Erik demanded.
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He'd broken into a run. She had no choice but to follow. Kitchen workers and waitstaff yelled at them as they passed. "My best friend up until a second ago." Ducking her head, she narrowly avoided plowing into a waiter carrying a large tray filled wish dishes and wineglasses. "Why are we running?" "Because your little exchange attracted the very people I was trying to avoid." He looked over his shoulder and saw two men in gray designer suits enter the kitchen. "Damn. Go, go, go!" Not waiting for her to obey the order, Erik took the lead, dragging her in his wake. Just as they made it into the alley, something whizzed by her head. The noise repeated. She tried to twist around to see what was going on. Erik wouldn't let her. "What the ?" "Bullets, Marla." He picked up speed. There was a car just up ahead. He had to reach it in time. "They call them bullets. In plain English, the bad guys are shooting at us. Now run, damn it, run!" Chapter Six Erik felt the heat as a bullet whizzed past his left ear. He silently blessed the shooters' poor aim or luck, whichever was responsible. The next moment, he saw Marla stumble and fall just a foot short of the convertible. In a swift, fluid movement that was as instinctive as breathing, Erik placed his body between her and the men pursuing them. Grabbing her arm, he yanked Marla to her feet while pulling open the passenger door. Pain exploded in his shoulder, then radiated out, infiltrating all parts of him. Surprised, his fingers loosened on her arm, then tightened again. With superhuman effort, he tried to hold on to not only her but to consciousness as well. Erik willed himself to breathe evenly. The pain began to blend in with everything else. He focused on what he had to do. Get them out of there. As he'd pushed her into the passenger's side of the Mustang, Marla had felt Erik stagger behind her, grunting something unintelligible under his breath. It was more like a growl than real words. "What?" He didn't answer. Erik was already on the other side, throwing himself into the driver's seat. Twisting around, she saw men running in their direction as he began doing something with the wires beneath the dashboard. Wearing suits that seemed in direct contradiction to the activity they were engaged in, the men looked as if they were fresh out of a boardroom meeting. Except for the guns in their hands. Marla had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She twisted toward Erik again. "This isn't your car, is it?" His head was pounding and he was struggling to keep from seeing double. It complicated the procedure. "Now isn't the time to worry about legal ownership." "We can't just steal a car." "We're borrowing it," he corrected. Sweat was popping out on his brow, between his shoulders, creating tiny rivulets down his back. He felt cold and hot at the same time. "And the alternative isn't pretty." The car started. He would have cheered if he had the strength. It was all he could do to straighten up and grab the wheel. Gunfire echoed in his head as he pulled out. "Duck." It was an order. "Duck?" "Duck!" he repeated, pushing her head down with his right hand. "You wouldn't look good with a bullet in your forehead. Doesn't go with the outfit." Gritting his teeth against a fresh onslaught of pain, he looked in
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the rearview mirror. The shooters must have hot-wired a car, as well. A maroon SUV was gaining on them. "Hang on. This is going to be bumpy." He wasn't kidding. Fifteen minutes later, after taking more twists and turns along the hilly streets than a wayward tornado, he finally felt confident enough to slow down. "I think we lost them." She wasn't going to throw up, she wasn't. Marla pressed her hand to her midsection. "Along with my stomach." Composure was something that had been lost on the first steep street. She was more angry than frightened. "Can I please go now?" He didn't want her getting killed because he'd entered the wrong hotel room. He wasn't letting Marla out of his sight until he was sure she would be safe ? like on a plane back home. He refused to consider why the thought depressed him. "Not until I'm sure the men following us have given up." Taking on the tone she used with unruly students, Marla drew herself up. "No more games. We need to go to the police. Those people mean ? " Her eyes widened as she saw the blood on his hand and followed the path up along his sleeve. "My God, you're hurt." He was 12 degrees past hurt and solidly entrenched in agony. His head felt vaguely hollow. "Deeply, if you keep on arguing with me." This was serious. "I mean you're bleeding. A lot." He kept driving, looking for a place that was safe. The streets were blurring. "Just a scratch." He was being incredibly stubborn. "Only if you're nine foot eleven. We have to get you to a hospital." He tried to shake his head and found doing so threatened blacking out. "Not possible." "But you need to have your injury taken care of." A smile curved his mouth as he looked at her. "Marla, I'm touched." "Obviously more than a little." Determined, she looked along the streets they were passing. At least the scenery was no longer whizzing by. "If you won't go to the emergency room, maybe we can find a drugstore." "I can't exactly go in like this." The car was beginning to slow down. Was he going to be sensible after all? "I was thinking of me." "Sorry, I can't..." She turned her head in time to see his eyes slide shut. "Oh, God." Marla grabbed the wheel. Without knowing how, she guided the Mustang to the curb without a mishap. Heart hammering, she pulled up the hand brake. "Erik?" Half afraid, she touched his throat, feeling for his pulse. He was alive, but unconscious. Marla let her hand drop. It was now or never. Marla seized her opportunity.
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Getting out of the car, she quickly walked halfway down the block before her footsteps slowed, then stopped. As she turned around she caught her reflection in a store window and shook her head in disbelief. "You are an idiot, Marla O'Connor. A first-class idiot." Frowning, she walked back to the car. *** The pain cut through layers of anesthetizing haze, growing sharper, dragging him up to the surface. Erik started, his hand reaching to his waistband before he even opened his eyes. "It's not there. I thought you'd be more comfortable without a gun jabbing you in the gut." Marla. The sound of her voice comforted him like the feel of a blanket on a cold, crisp day. It almost, just for a heartbeat, made him feel safe. It was an odd sensation, given his line of work and the circumstances. She was the kind of woman his mother would have picked out for him. He could almost hear her voice now. You need a good woman in your life. That was Marla. A good woman. He needed to keep her a good, live woman. With effort, he focused. First on Marla, then on his surroundings. He was lying on a sagging bed whose sheets hadn't been changed since the Bush Administration. The room was small and smelled of cheap liquor and cheaper perfume. Propping a stiff elbow under him, he managed to sit up. "Where the hell are we?" Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Marla tried to push him back. It wasn't as easy as she'd expected. The man had amazing stamina. Something inside her vaguely wondered if that extended to all things physical. "In the seediest motel I could find. This way, the guy at the front desk doesn't ask questions." A smile formed. She saw it in his eyes before it filtered to his mouth. "Smart thinking." Erik looked down at his shoulder. It still felt as if it were on fire. It was also bandaged. "Who ??" "Me." She'd found a pharmacy in the area and bought supplies. Very slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position. The room moved only slightly. He'd been worse. "Where did you learn how to patch people up like this?" "School yard." She liked the surprised look on his face, liked not being completely predictable to him. It was her turn to smile. "First neighborhood I taught in was pretty rough." A more important question occurred to him. "Why didn't you run when you had the chance?" She shrugged, swallowing the answer that came immediately. ause I couldn't. "You could have abandoned me at any time but you didn't." Her smile softened, her fear fading. There was something about a hero... "If you hadn't stopped to help me when I fell, you wouldn't have gotten shot. I figured I owed you one. Maybe two." Embarrassed by the way he was looking at her and feeling decidedly warmer than the room would have warranted, she nodded at his shoulder. "You were lucky. The bullet went clean through. But you did lose a lot of blood."
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Erik looked out the window. It was dark. "How long have I been out?" "Long enough for me to patch you up and get some takeout." Rising, she went to the bureau against the wall. A large white paper bag dominated the surface. "How do you feel about Chinese food?" "We're near Chinatown?" She nodded. "On the outskirts." That meant she'd gotten them clear across town. Admiration lifted the corners of his mouth. "You are full of surprises, Marla O'Connor." She was beginning to think so, too. It was a nice thing to find out about herself. He was reaching for his shirt. Marla crossed back to him. "What are you doing?" "I'm getting up." He was uneasy. They had to get moving. There was no telling if she'd been spotted. Marla frowned. "You need to rest." "I rested." "You passed out." "Same thing." He paused to look at her, amused. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you cared." He tried not to let that matter and succeeded only marginally. Her shrug was more self-conscious than casual. "I have a weakness for dumb animals." His eyes touched her face, lingering on her mouth. Remembering. "Not so dumb. I hooked up with you, didn't I?" She had no comeback for that. Just a very warm, unsettled feeling unfurling in the pit of her stomach. Especially when he looked at her like that. The next minute, the feeling was pushed to the background. She heard a noise and turned toward the door of their room. To her disbelief and horror, the doorknob was being turned once again. What was it about her and hotel rooms? She knew she'd locked it after she'd returned with the Chinese takeout. Marla glanced at Erik who was stone-faced and then back to the door and realized she was holding her breath. "We know you're in there," a deep voice growled from the other side. "If you give us what we want, we won't kill you ? or the girl. If you make this difficult ?" Marla did not like the significant pause. "The girl is going to suffer. A lot." Chapter Seven Marla stared at Erik. The only way out was through the front door ? she had checked out any possible escape routes after she'd made sure Erik would live. She was beginning to think like him. She wasn't sure if she liked that.
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On the other side of the door were the two men who were planning to do unspeakable things to her. She gulped. She did know that she trusted Erik. He grabbed the backpack, making certain that it was zipped shut, then motioned to Marla. "When I nod my head," he whispered, "open the door." She was putting her life in the hands of a crazy man. Marla could almost see Erik mentally counting to three, then he nodded his head. Terrified, she flipped the lock and yanked open the door. Prepared to use force, the first man stumbled in, followed by the second one. Erik swung the backpack like a weapon, felling the first. Marla stuck out her leg and tripped the second man, who landed on top of the first goon. Grabbing Marla's hand, Erik pulled her out of the room and slammed the door shut in his wake. "Nice work." She didn't know why the compliment had her glowing inside. She had to be going crazy herself. The glow continued. The lot in front was empty. "Where's the car?" "I parked it in the back." It seemed like the thing to do. He liked how she was beginning to think like him. "Perfect." They ran for the Mustang. "Marla, we'll make a recruit out of you yet." She opened her mouth to say, "Over my dead body," then realized she really didn't mean that. It startled her to realize that as frightening as this was, it was also exhilarating. As exhilarating as the man holding her hand. Instead, she shot back, "You couldn't afford me." Reaching the car, he jumped in. Hands on the steering wheel, he was backing out the moment her thigh hit the passenger's side. But he took a split second to look at her. "Give me a price." Why, in the center of an explosive situation, a situation that could end in death at any moment, did she suddenly feel heat throbbing through her body because he'd given her a penetrating look? "We'll talk," she breathed. His smile went clear down to her bones. "Count on it." She had a feeling he didn't have talking in mind. Marla grew hotter. They were barreling down the street, careening from one lane to another as Erik jockeyed for distance. Marla forgot to be hot-and-bothered and concentrated on not falling over in her seat. "Do all spies have a death wish?" He spared her a look, turning down the street. A glance at the signpost told him where he was. "I'm not a spy. Just a courier." That was his story and he was sticking to it. For her sake. Right, and she was a hummingbird. Marla sighed. "Okay, whatever you are, answer the question. Do you have a death wish?" "No more than most people." The silence in the car ate into the darkness. Maybe he owed her something more than a flippant answer, he thought. A little truth wouldn't hurt. He opened a crack into his past. "I was a history teacher."
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She turned her head to look at him. She had her doubts. He wasn't like any history teacher he'd ever met. "And what, you wanted to make it, not teach it?" Her naiveté was almost refreshing. Had he ever seen things that simply? He couldn't remember. "Something like that." Marla looked out. Nothing looked familiar. They hadn't gone this way before. Was he driving away, or driving to? She settled in, knowing she'd find out when she found out. "So how does a history teacher learn how to scale the sides of tall buildings and hot-wire cars?" He distanced himself from the memory. "I've been at this for a while. You pick up things." Marla glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping not to see the police. "Like stolen cars?" That was the least of his concerns. "It's just borrowed, remember?" "Shouldn't we 'unborrow' it before some patrol car runs the plates and stops us?" He laughed softly. "I'm impressed." She didn't know if he was laughing at her or not. "N.Y.P.D. Blue," she murmured. "We all have to get our education somewhere." Making a right, he drove into a strip mall. "All right, we'll lose the Mustang. This looks like a good place to ditch it." They pulled up into a space. She looked out. "A McDonald's?" He exited the car as if he hadn't a care in the world. She scrambled after him. "A lot of through traffic here. Still hungry?" She'd had dinner twice within her grasp, only to have to flee without taking a bite. "That is an understatement. I'm starving." "Then we'll eat." Taking her hand, he led her inside. The place was packed. There was hardly enough room to walk unobstructed. "Crowded enough for you?" she asked. He merely smiled in reply. They got in line and ordered, then undertook the ordeal of finding a table. Erik nodded toward one that had just been vacated. "Looks like our luck's changed." She sincerely hoped so. Sitting down, she made short work of the paper wrapper around the hamburger. Her stomach growled as she bit into the bun. "You really know how to show a girl a good time." She hesitated, then pushed ahead. "I've got a question for you." There was a dab of ketchup on her chin. Leaning over, he wiped it away with his thumb and felt something stir inside of him. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, with large, smoky eyes filled with emotion. With a sincerity that surprised him, he wished there was time to explore that emotion. "Shoot." For all her hunger, Marla found she was having trouble swallowing. He was looking at her that way again. It curled her toes and made her ache for a warm fireplace and a long, endless night. "Why did you stop to help me up when we were running for the car?" Did she think he was heartless, he wondered. "I couldn't just leave you."
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Marla could still feel her pulse doing tricks. You'd think she'd never had a man touch her before. But she hadn't. Not the way he did. Even wiping away ketchup felt like an erotic activity. "I thought all secret agents were taught to be hard-hearted." He shrugged and instantly regretted it. Pain scissored through him. "I cut class that day." "Lucky for me." She took another bite. The door opened and her eyes darted toward it. But it was only a group of teenagers. "How do you suppose they found us at the motel?" He'd been working on that. "Either blind luck or ?" It suddenly occurred to him. "How did you pay for the room?" "With my charge card, why?" An easy mistake. "There's your answer. They tracked you down by the card activity." Marla laid the hamburger down. She'd thought that only happened in the movies. "What kind of people are you up against?" "The shrewd, intelligent, ruthless kind. People who take good things and turn them into bad. People who would make those kids in the tough neighborhood you were talking about look like Good Samaritans." He'd dealt with their kind for so long, he'd forgotten there were any other type around. It'd taken her to make him remember. Wouldn't it be nice if he could keep her around? Coming from nowhere, the thought almost succeeded in unsettling him. She shivered. "Comforting thought." "Wasn't meant to be." Having finished his fries, he crushed the container. "It was meant to keep you on your toes." "For how long? I get nosebleeds easily." "Just until morning. Once I turn the 'product' over, our friends are in a new ball game." She wished he'd tell her more. "And that makes them harmless?" "Not harmless, but they won't come after you." And in the last few hours, that had become important to him, he realized. Very important. "What about you?" There were nothing but ice chips left in his drink. He stirred them with his straw. "I knew the risks when I signed on." She wondered about that ? and about him. "Is there a Mrs. Spy somewhere? Does she know the risks?" She wondered why the answer was so important to her. "No, there's no Mrs. Spy." Their eyes held for a long moment. "I wouldn't have kissed you like that if there was." "Ah, an honorable spy." She'd tried to make a joke of it, but fell short of her goal.
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"I'd try to be ? if I were one." Humor entered his voice. "I thought I told you, I'm not a spy." A movement caught his eye. The door was opening. Damn. The designer agents had found them. "Here we go again." She didn't even bother to look as he grabbed her hand and pulled her up with him. Marla caught a handful of fries with her other hand and then they plowed through crowd, making their way around the counter. "Hey, you can't go there!" an adolescent food server protested as they hurried through the kitchen, heading for the back door. Marla pulled herself short, barely avoiding crashing into one of the help. Her fries flew out of her hand. She sighed in resignation. "You know, I've seen an awful lot of kitchen for someone with an almost empty stomach." He pushed open the back door. "A full stomach won't do you any good if you're dead." "Good point." Chapter Eight They used the car one more time, driving into the heart of Chinatown before finally abandoning the Mustang on one of the side streets. As they wove their way from one store to another, Marla noticed that revelers were everywhere. "What is all this?" she finally asked, slightly breathless. "Chinese New Year." There were gaily dressed people, bright lights and enough noise to deafen half a city. Marla had to lean in close just to hear what Erik had said. The fact that doing so put him as close to her as her own clothing and that it delighted her was a revelation to her. She'd always kept both men and feelings at arm's length, afraid that reality was not nearly as satisfying as the fantasies that evolved in her mind, seeded by stories that existed between the pages of books. But this was outmatching any fantasy she'd ever come up with. And she found herself really getting into it at moments. The moments were growing longer. Who was this man she'd been forced to throw her lot in with? Was he really on the right side, or was she being an unwitting dupe? Looking into his eyes, she thought not. She knew at least 10 people who would have called her a fool for abandoning all logical reasoning and leading with her instincts, but there it was. She was going with her gut. Or, more to the point, with her heart. Because her heart was definitely going for a ride tonight. And she was loving it. "Try to blend in." His words were breathed against her face, and she was more aware of him than what he was saying. She shook her head, inclining it even closer to his mouth. She felt his breath on her temple and goose bumps rose to attention. "What?" Erik indicated the throng all around them. "Try to blend in," he repeated.
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This was Chinatown, and they were surrounded by its citizens and the relatives of those citizens. She stood out like a red flag on a snowbank. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Chinese." He smiled at her then. A smile that went clear down to the bone and took up residence within places that, a scant 50 years ago, weren't mentioned in polite society. "Oh, I noticed all right. I noticed a great deal about you, Marla O'Connor." He was using her full name again, as if he was mocking her. She frowned as they continued moving with the celebrants. "I wish you'd stop saying my name that way. You make it sound like I'm some backwoods foundling who never graduated third grade." He laughed at the interpretation. "No offense intended, Marla. I just like the sound of your name." He liked more than that. He liked the whole neat, surprising package that was Marla O'Connor. Erik slipped his arm around her shoulders, bringing her even closer to him. He could almost feel her innocence. It made him remember what this was supposed to be all about and why he'd originally dealt himself into the game. Mom, apple pie, and baseball. She made him think of all those things. She also made him think of long, lazy kisses and excitement that was barely contained. The woman merited a great deal of closer examination. "Would you think I was completely crazy if I told you that in a strange way, I'm enjoying myself?" She stared at him, trying not to notice that when she turned her head, her mouth was less than a heartbeat away from his. The crowd faded. "Getting chased out of a four-star hotel, a fleabag motel, a McDonald's, run down and shot at, yes, I have to say that 'crazy' seems to fit the situation." What was crazier was that she was enjoying it, too. "Is this a typical day for you?" It was anything but. "No, I don't usually have guardian angels with swirling dark hair and a light touch coming to my aid. Usually I wing it alone." A chill went through her that had nothing to do with the weather. The press of bodies made it almost warm. "That has a very lonely sound to it." "At times," he allowed. "At others, I'm too busy to be lonely." Marla scanned the crowd, wondering how he could seem that complacent. They were out there somewhere, those distinguished-looking men in their designer suits with their guns and their complete disregard of life. Why wasn't he more worried? Her stomach growled, reminding her that she was still hungry. "Do you think there might be something to eat around all these celebrating people?" "Ask and you shall receive." He surprised her by producing a paper boat filled with tiny blackened chicken wings. They'd passed a vender a second ago. Was Erik light-fingered as well as everything else? "You didn't steal that, did you?" Even amid all this, she was a straight arrow. He found he rather liked that. It kept him grounded. He began to wonder about her, about the life she'd led before today. If there was someone special in it. And if there was room for him. The thought had just snuck up, surprising the hell out of him. Despite the situation, he began to toy with it in earnest. "Would you refuse to eat it if I did?" She was already biting into a wing. "No, but I'd feel guilty." He laughed, pleased at the gusto he saw. "Don't. I took it from a vendor, but I left him more money than it cost." He'd found a five in his pocket, money he'd transferred when he'd changed. He'd forgotten about it.
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Marla swallowed, her mouth curving. "I guess maybe you are honorable at that." Erik inclined his head. Honorable. He liked thinking of himself in those terms. Liked having her think of him in those terms. They were still moving, carried along by the crowd. He remained alert. "Whenever it doesn't interfere with my living another day." The last of the wings were gone. Crushing the container, she tossed it into a basket on the corner. An uneasy question had been haunting her. "Have you killed anyone, Erik?" Reality found him, dissolving more pleasant thoughts. The less she knew, the better for her. His face hardened. "Much to my mother's dismay, I stopped going to confession a long time ago." Despite the roar of the crowd, she only heard his voice. "You have a mother?" Humor returned, curving his lips. "Yes, I have a mother. Most people do at some stage of their lives." Embarrassment dotted her cheeks. "Sorry, I just don't think of spies as having parents." "Just springing up, full-grown, like Athena out of Zeus's head, eh?" "You know mythology." He found her surprise amusing rather than insulting. He wondered about that. Had to be the woman. "I know lots of things that don't include bullets and car chases." "Tell me about your parents. Are they still alive?" This was where he should cut her off. That he didn't was another revelation. "Yes." "Do they know? What you do, I mean?" The smile became a little remote. "At times, I don't know what I do." "They still think you're a history teacher, don't they?" Yes, they did. But he didn't want to talk about himself anymore. This was far more personal than he'd been in years. "What about you?" She took the question for what it was, a signal that they were no longer talking about him. "Well, my parents just celebrated their 30th anniversary last month. I've got three older sisters, all gorgeous, all married and I still go to confession." He smiled at that. Drawing her over to the curb, he curled a wayward strand of her hair around his finger and looked into her eyes. Carving out a small, private niche for them amid the swirling noise. "I'm curious. What is it that someone like you has to confess?" His eyes were touching her, reducing her to a semiliquid state "Not much. I don't go that often." He could have eaten her up right then and there. And wished they were somewhere private so he could act on some of the feelings ambushing him. "Would you like something to confess next time? Something to keep the old padre from falling asleep?"
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His mouth was so close to hers she could taste it. If she didn't say something quickly, he was going to kiss her and she wasn't sure she could handle that right now. Not without dissolving. Marla took a step back. "Um, is there someplace around here where I, um, could...?" He drew back, amused at her expression and somewhat taken aback at his own reaction. There was a moment there that he'd felt like someone else. Like the person he could have been if life had gone a little differently than the way it had. "Are you trying to say you're looking for a rest room?" Embarrassed, she nodded. "I think we passed a Chinese restaurant the last block. You can go there." She wanted to sit down before her knees deserted her. "Could we maybe eat there, too?" He was acquainted with the place. The food was good. "We'll order to go." She had a weakness for Chinese food and felt her mouth watering. "Sounds like heaven." Holding her arm, he created the appearance that they were two tourists, out for a good time. "No, giving you something to confess sounds like heaven. Food is only a basic necessity of life." Walking into the Red Dragon, Erik bowed to the man behind the counter. The man returned the greeting. Then, in what Marla assumed was one of the many Chinese dialects, Erik asked the owner something. The man pointed behind him. "The rest room's past the bar," Erik told her. "Go ahead. I'll wait for you here." She hurried toward the rear of the restaurant, marveling at the growing list of Erik's talents. The ladies' room was small and neat and she was quick, pausing only long enough to fix her makeup before leaving again. Vanity, she thought with a shake of her head. But she wanted to look nice. For Erik. The moment she opened the door, someone grabbed her from the side, covering her mouth. Chapter Nine Marla felt sharp pain stabbing her scalp. Whoever had grabbed her, had twisted her hair around their hand and was close to yanking it out by the roots, half pushing, half dragging her out through the a back door in the restaurant. The pain made her heart race. Terror encompassed her. Releasing her hair, a man twisted her right arm behind her back, almost snapping it in half. "Well, at least we have her," he snarled to his companion. Her captor was so average looking, she could have tripped over him and not noticed him at all. Except for his eyes. A cold, almost-clear blue, they seemed to slice into her, carving her into little brittle pieces. There were two of them. Only two. Were there others around? She couldn't focus. The pain was making her eyes well up. "What good does that do us?" the second man asked. "We still don't have him and he's the one with the microchip."
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"We'll have him soon enough." The captor twisted Marla around, studying her. "I don't know how you figure into this, Ms. O'Connor, but you obviously mean a lot to our fair-haired boy. I could be wrong, but I think he might even be willing to agree to a little trade just to get you back ? in one piece." He laughed quietly, the sound sending salvos of panic through her. "Give us back what's ours for what's his." His hand still covering her mouth, he began to shove her into a car that was parked in the alley. She knew her chances of getting out alive would evaporate. One look at the man's eyes told her he had no intentions of trading her. She was just bait. And Erik was the fish. Marla bit down on the fleshy part of the man's hand, simultaneously driving her high heel into his shin. Squealing in surprise and pain, he stumbled back, pulling his hand away. Marla spun around on her heel and shoved him into the other man. They toppled like well dressed dominos and she ran back into the restaurant. When she flew past Erik, it took him less than a beat to fall in behind her. "Sorry," he called to the owner who was emerging with their order. In another beat, Erik was abreast, grabbing her hand. He didn't have to ask what was wrong, he knew. He silently cursed himself for not standing guard at the lady's room door. What if something had happened to her because of him? What if they'd hurt her? The image of Marla ? hurt or dead ? was like a physical blow. It shocked him. He was always able to detach himself, to emotionlessly see things from all angle. That was what made him a good operative. "This way," he pointed. His target was the long, colorful dragon, comprised of fabric, human participants and imagination making its way down the street beneath a canopy of fireworks. Pulling Marla in before him, Erik ducked under the sparkling green and yellow material that was the dragon's side. They found themselves between two confused looking Asian men in their late thirties. A barrage of words flew at them from all directions. Marla understood nothing. Erik responded and the raised voices lowered, and stopped. The men nodded, smiled and returned to the task, moving the dragon forward. "What did you tell them?" she asked. "I asked for their help. That I'd stolen you from your husband and that he was chasing us." Catching the eye of the man in front, he nodded his head. "They're nice guys." The man in front of Marla smiled, repeating the words "nice guys." They were safe. For the moment. As far as she knew, the dragon was weaving its way down streets filled with revelers, but all Marla could see were feet. She felt the press of Erik's body behind her as they moved. Heat became her companion as well. "So how long do we hide under here?" He was acquainted with the route. "The parade winds all the way from the financial district to the end of Chinatown. We think we'd better stay in the dragon's belly for about half an hour or so." It sounded like a plan to her.
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*** Marla tried to make out the numbers on her watch. They'd dropped out of the parade after what seemed like miles. "I'm so tired, I'm going to drop where I'm standing." They hurried through the streets. The crowds were beginning to thin out. They needed to find shelter and soon. It wouldn't be safe to be out. His shoulder was beginning to ache again. "Please don't. I'm not in any condition to carry you." "We could get a room someplace." She realized her words could be interpreted as a proposition, but she was too tired to care. His sentiments exactly. "No charge cards. That's how they found us the last time." "A hotel isn't going to let us stay out of the goodness of their hearts," she pointed out. "Do you have any money?" Aside from a few dollars, her pockets were empty. "No." He saw a bank on the corner. Even at this hour, there was someone making a withdrawal at the ATM window. That was the answer. "Give me your ATM card." Confused, she looked at him. "What ATM card? I don't have one." "That's un-American." He blew out a breath. For the moment, he was out of ideas. Opening her purse, she rummaged through the various items Erik had tossed in until she found her wallet. "But I've got a Huntly's card." The name was vaguely familiar. And then he remembered. "A supermarket card?" He laughed shortly. "I don't think you'd find those shelves all that comfortable to sleep on. Too narrow." Excited now, her fatigue temporarily vanished. She began pulling him in the direction of the supermarket. "No, but I can get money that way." It proved easier to show him than to explain it. Once in the supermarket, she bought a six pack of cola and a bag of donuts. Running her card through the scanner, she punched in her codev number and then requested change. A hundred dollars. Satisfied, she held the money up to him as they walked out. "Now we can get a room somewhere." He kissed her, taking the money and pocketing it. "That's my girl." It took a while for her heart to stop racing. They got a room in the Chandler Hotel. Marla noted that they had made it full circle, back to a four star hotel. It was after two in the morning. They had less than twelve hours to go before Erik made his delivery. Entering, Marla made a beeline for the bed, sinking into it. After a moment, he joined her. They exhaled together, then laughed. "I'm exhausted. I've never packed so much into one evening in my life." Turning her head to look at him, she realized suddenly how close he was. It took a second to locate her tongue. "Do you think they'll find us here?"
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He was thinking, for a woman who was tired, she looked incredibly alluring. He was aware how close they were to each other. "Not with luck." They'd covered their trail pretty well and it was time they earned a small respite. "They haven't shown up in the last hour." She wasn't nearly as optimistic as she normally was. Still, there was nothing they could do right now except get some sleep. Marla propped herself up on her elbow. "I guess you should get the bed. You're wounded." "Why can't we both get the bed?" She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "Because ? -" His smile was slow, sexy and lethal as hell. She was almost on fire. "Don't trust yourself with me?" She tried for dignity but settled for coherence. "I wasn't thinking of me." He reached over and touched her cheek, sliding his finger down slowly. "I make it a practice never to do anything the lady doesn't want to do." Suddenly, he desperately wanted to spend the night with her in the very fullest sense of the word. She pressed her lips together. "Shouldn't one of us stand guard?" He laughed. "This isn't Fort Apache. Besides," he pointed. "I rigged the doorknob." Squinting, she looked intently at it. It looked untouched. "Where? I don't see anything." "That's the point." He exclaimed, almost touching her uneasiness. This wasn't the way he wanted it to be. Erik sat up. "If it makes you feel better, I'll take the sofa." Sitting up, Marla looked at it and then at him. It was smaller than a love seat. "The only way you could sleep on that is if you were a Smurf." She debated her options. By tomorrow, he would be gone from her life. And with him the one opportunity she had to live the way the heroines in all the books she loved lived. "It's all right," she said softly. "You can share the bed with me." "I thought you'd never ask." Because he couldn't resist, Erik took her into his arms, pressing a kiss softly to her neck. Her sigh nearly drove him over the edge. But he held himself in check. They had until dawn together. Chapter Ten As she kissed Erik, a feeling of panic lunged forward, elbowing sensuality aside. What if this was a huge mistake? What if she was being carried away by the moment, the danger and a man as sexy as sin? Before she'd met Erik, she'd always been level-headed, but now she was in over her head and going down. He could feel her wrestling with herself and Erik drew back. His smile widened. Marla looked rather adorable and flustered. He just realized, she looked rather adorable no matter what the situation. "Relax, Marla, you've nothing to fear from me." She wasn't afraid of him. It was herself she had feared. Fear of losing her heart to a man who wouldn't remember her name by this time next week. "Oh, I don't know about that. Sexy men are a danger all their own." He looked into her eyes and knew she wanted the same things he did. At least for tonight. Softly, he caressed the curve of her cheek. "Only if they presume things."
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His touch was hypnotic. It took effort to form words. They floated from her lips slowly. "What sort of things?" He wanted to touch her. Touch her in ways no other man ever had. To make her remember him ? always. "Some men presume that being slightly better looking than average entitles them to hold any woman they want." He tightened his embrace just a little. "Like this. Or kiss that woman. Like this." He pressed another kiss to her throat and felt her pulse jump. He looked at her. "Do I make you nervous, Marla?" Very slowly, her eyes on his, she shook her head. "No, I make me nervous." There was humor in his eyes. "Why?" "Because." Breathe, damn it, Marla, breathe, she ordered herself. Hopelessly lost in her eyes, Erik lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss gained a speed all its own. Her lungs lost breath. Her body attained the consistency of overcooked pudding, turning to liquid. Her head spun and her pulse did things that defied description within the known parameters of the AMA. "That," she finally managed to say. "Because of that." He combed his fingers through her hair, framing her face, bringing it closer again. "One should always make a point of facing one's fears." "Show me," she murmured. "I'm very good in a hands-on situation," he promised her. "I never doubted it," she whispered before words became obsolete and her lips were otherwise occupied. *** A glimmer of sunlight nudged at her consciousness. Her eyes still shut, savoring the last of this euphoric half-dream, Marla reached for him. The place beside her was empty. The warm haze froze and broke apart into tiny pieces. She opened her eyes in panic to see. Erik across the room, tucking his shirt into his pants. He was looking at her. "Time to go," he said. How long had she slept? She struggled with the fog around her brain. Erik hadn't left her, but their adventure was coming to an end. "Is it two o'clock already?" "No, but we have to keep moving. A rolling stone attracts no bullets." Gathering up the clothes he'd slowly removed from her last night, he placed them on the bed beside her. "By my calculations, we've probably used up all the luck allotted to us." He could have watched her sleep all night. Curled up innocently against his side, her cheek nestled on his arm. She'd made him feel things he'd forgotten he could feel. Some emotions he couldn't remember ever feeling before. It was dangerous for a man in his line of work to feel anything at all, he reminded himself. But feelings ? his desire to defend what was good ? had been what had pulled him into this world with its shades of gray in the first place. The consequence of what he sometimes had to do had meant that he'd
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shut down emotionally. And now, after a decade on ice, these feelings and wants were flowing back. Because of Marla. Sitting up, she forgot about the sheet and it drooped. Marla made a grab for it, but not before his eyes claimed her. She felt herself growing warm again. What had happened in the wee hours of this morning was not something she was going to forget any time soon. "Is there time for a shower?" The question awakened erotic thoughts. "I only wish." But he shook his head. With the sheet arranged around her like a Roman toga, she rose, the clothes in her arms. "All right, it'll only take me a minute to get ready." She surprised him by how fast she could get dressed. He wasn't accustomed to women who moved fast, only fast women. They left by the back stairs, rousing Marla's conscience. "Is it really necessary to sneak out like thieves?" He'd sent money in a sealed envelope addressed to the management down the hotel mail shoot. The room had been paid for. "Necessary and highly advisable." She was beginning to recognize his tones. That one left no room for argument. *** Mingling with crowds of tourists and natives, they boarded the public transit. A bus to the financial district, a trolley to the outskirts of Fisherman's Wharf, the BART through the center of the city. By noon, Marla estimated they'd put in over a hundred miles in a city that spanned forty-nine. "Are you sure you're not lost?" she finally asked him. "Maybe if we asked directions ? " "I know where I'm going," he assured her, his hand holding hers. "Always." Her gaze met his. Did he know he was also holding her heart? "Are you sure?" His silent debate was unexpected. And over within a second. He made up his mind. Taking a detour from his route, he brought her to the park across the street: an open area close to the Presido. There, away from people who might overhear, away from everything but pigeons, Erik departed from the straight and narrow line he'd followed for so long. He wanted her to know everything about him. "I'm guarding a chemical compound that, under the right temperature, becomes self-replicating at an incredible speed. The scientist who made the discovery was killed. We've been playing tag with the compound and at the moment I'm it." He saw the question in her eyes and said it simply. "I have the only known quantity. Applied correctly, it can be used to produce microscopic quantum computers capable of doing calculations at a phenomenal speed. Something that currently takes years can be done in a matter of hours. Whatever country owns the secret of this compound will leap forward in all kinds of technology. In the wrong hands, this could mean global enslavement or mass destruction." She grasped the ramifications of what he was saying ? but not why. "Why are you telling me this?"
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"Because you have a right to know. Because in that hotel room this morning you became more than just a shadow that fell across my life." The corners of his mouth rose. "I guess that sounds pretty sappy, coming from a CIA agent, doesn't it?" Moved by his words, they stopped walking, and she turned to him, touching his face. "No, I think it sounds pretty wonderful. It makes you real." He arched an eyebrow. "And last night I wasn't real?" She struggled with a blush. "Realer," she corrected. He glanced at his watch. "Time to make this ?realer,' still." Picking up his pace while still holding her hand, Erik picked up his pace. All the while, he remained alert, watching for the men they had, thus far, managed to elude. He and Marla arrived at Fort Point, just beyond the Presido, at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge at one forty-five, precisely. The designer agents, as he'd dubbed them arrived at one forty-six. "Time for hide and seek again," he hissed against her ear, hurrying her into the building. She tried to look behind, but Erik blocked her way. Protecting her again. "Are they ? ?" He didn't have to look. "They are." There was an elderly man standing just shy of the entrance, reading a plaque dedicated to the brave soldiers who had spent the duration of the Civil War guarding the bridge from possible seizure by the Confederates. From a distance, the man looked like an elegant Santa Claus. Marla inclined her head to Erik. "Is that your man?" "No, that's their man." The agent seemed to be alone. An illusion. But that was all right, their side had illusions, too. "Ours is the one over there." She saw no one but a man in blue livery, sweeping. "The janitor?" "Waste management engineer." He held out his hand. She had the backpack. "Give me your book." "My book?" Even before she took, Mystery at Midnight, out of her purse, it hit her. No wonder he'd insisted on bringing it along. "It was in here all the time?" He nodded. "Imbedded in a paste compound inside the back fly leaf." One arm threaded through hers, he casually walked by the refuse container beside the janitor. As he passed it, he tossed the book in. The janitor didn't even bother looking in their direction. He continued sweeping, depositing his refuse in the trash can and then moving the can along with him. If Marla hadn't know what was going on, she wouldn't have known the agent had been waiting for a delivery.. She heard running footsteps behind her and turned to see two men; the same men who'd been chasing them, taking off after the janitor. But, before she could say anything, Erik had tackled one of them and another man, she'd thought was a student, had a gun pointed at the second. Marla held her breath. This was even more exciting than her suspense novels.
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Erik handed his guy over to the agent and came back to her. "Is that it ? ?" she asked. "It is." She let out a breath. It seemed that they were finally safe. And finished. Disappointment hovered, taking possession. "And that's it?" "That's it." He'd done what he'd been sent to do. Now it was someone else's turn. "Want some breakfast?" "I want to know what happens next." He took her arm. "I'll see if I can get them to serve that as a side order." They sat at an outdoor cafe. This beautiful, San Francisco afternoon was perfect for lovers to share. Marla toyed with her juice, wondering when he would get around to saying good-bye. She stalled for some time, knowing there was none left. "So, now what?" He'd been studying her quietly. And coming to term with things. "That depends on you." "On me? How?" He didn't answer directly. Instead, he asked, "is it everything you thought it was cracked up to be? Those spy adventures you like to read. Is living one as exciting as you thought?" Her eyes met his. "More." And she meant it. Both as a response and a request. She wanted more. Wanted to experience more. Most of all, she wanted more of him in her life. "Where do I sign up?" "Sign up?" he echoed, with confusion. "Yes. You signed up, I want to do the same. Where do I do it?" He thought of her as an operative. No one would ever suspect. Then, his protective nature kicked it. "It isn't that simple." "I don't mind complicated." She reached over and touched his hand; what she'd meant to say was written in her eyes. He began to smile. Just a little. "I could help you train." "I was hoping you might." She was, as his grandfather liked to say, a pistol. And he wanted to be the only one handling the firing pin. "First step is to take you home to meet my mother." "Your mother?" Marla blinked. "She's with the CIA?" "No, she's with me." His mouth softened. "The way I'd like you to be." She knew what he was saying without needing all the words. "So this would be a package deal." He wasn't walking away, he was staying. Her heart felt like singing. "The CIA and you." His smile grew wider. "In a way." He wanted her with him. Always. The other part they'd work out. I've always liked packages."
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"Me, too. I like opening them. Slowly." He was making her warm again. Very warm. She pushed the juice aside and leaned closer. There was no one to hear them. "If I join up, do I get my own gun?" "Only if you don't use it on me." Her eyes were smiling. "I've got other things I want to use on you." He rose, taking her hand in his. "No time like the present to get started." Marla O'Connor, the girl who had wanted adventure, found it, and she couldn't have agreed with Erik more.
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The Secret Wedding by Liz Fielding The last thing either Tom or Mollie expect is to spend a weekend together?even if they are still married.
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| *** Begin your story at a moment of crisis, a point in time when your character?s life is about to change forever. ? Mollie Blake?s Writing Workshop Notes *** Tom Garrick couldn?t believe he was doing this. He wrote bestselling thrillers for men. His readers didn?t want emotional guff polluting the action. Women were included for the sole purpose of providing sex and sympathy while they fixed up his hero?s wounds. And to bump up the body count. He almost smiled. Almost. "The books are still selling really well ? " his publisher had told him " ? but you seem to have lost that wonderful humanity the women readers loved. Get back in touch with your feminine side, Tom." The man hadn?t been making a suggestion. He?d meant it. "Women buy a lot of books." Tom didn?t have a feminine side. Not anymore. As for spending his weekend being lectured on how to raise the "sigh" factor in his books... He said something rude, his mood deteriorating as he maneuvered his sports car toward the gothic pile that was the venue for a weekend workshop with bestselling romance novelist Mollie Blake. He repeated his curse, stocking up against his entry into a sugar pink, expletive-free zone. Mollie Blake was not happy as she shifted gears, grinding the motor slightly. She didn?t do signings, or talk shows, and she sure as heck didn?t do workshops. But when your sweetheart of a publisher had promised a friend, had gone down on his knees, had been desperate enough to offer the loan of his precious car because it had a phone and she?d never be out of touch... Late, she put her foot down on the accelerator. Tom cruised the packed car park. The venue, at least, was a bonus. The hotel had once been used as the set for low-budget horror movies and the weekend might be considerably enlivened by devising grisly literary ends for other members of the workshop. He grinned. He?d think up something really special for Ms. Mollie Blake. Mollie?s car phone rang and her heart gave a little lift as she pressed the hands-off button to answer it. "Hi, sweetheart ... " Then, "Can you hold on a minute, darling? I need to park." Spotting a space, Tom shifted into reverse. Maybe he could get a book out of this workshop and his grin deepened as he considered a title. A Shroud in Pink Lace? "What the ? " He was jolted out of pleasurable thoughts of mayhem and murder by an ominous thunk and the sound of breaking glass. The positive thoughts evaporated; he?d gotten it right the first time. This was going to be the weekend from hell. Climbing out of the car to check the damage, prepared to be reasonable on an I?ll-pay-for-mine, if you?llpay-for-yours basis, he turned to check the damage and swallowed hard. His old Aston Martin was built like a tank and had scarcely sustained a scratch. But he?d hit a hundred thousand pounds worth of black Porsche and he let slip a phrase that he usually confined between the covers of his books. "Ditto." The woman who?d been at the wheel of the Porsche didn?t look up from her examination of the damage, but her voice gave him a moment of hope. Soft, slightly husky, the sound settled low in his vitals,
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stirring something that his mind reached for, but just slipped past the edge of memory... He shrugged, let it go. And fought to contain a smile. It wasn?t all bad news. Bent over the buckled rear of the car in a short, close-fitting skirt, the lady displayed a physical framework to match all that classy German engineering. Her face was hidden by a pale curtain of silver-blond hair that shimmered in the light spilling from the entrance to the hotel, but the rest of her was a feast to behold. Her legs alone were enough to give a man straight-to-hell ideas ? if a man was in the market for that kind of thing. But she was the kind of woman that any one of his heroes would be glad to have hanging off his left arm and maybe, in the interests of research.... "Tell me," she asked, pre-empting him, without bothering to look up. "Just what kind of idiot are you?" The softness had been illusory. Not that she had raised her voice. Simply endowed it with an edge of sarcasm that would have cut through steel. Well, in her place, he guessed he?d be feeling a little touchy. "I don?t know," he said. "How many kinds are there?" Mollie groaned inwardly. As if it wasn?t bad enough that he?d done untold damage to poor Jerry?s precious car, the man was a relic from some cliché-ridden romance. Ignoring the pick-chat up line, she straightened, unimpressed with Mr. Cute. But she couldn?t escape the clichés. Even in the darkness of the car park she could see that he was tall, with mile-wide shoulders. A car door opened nearby and in the brief burst of light she saw that he was grinning, his mouth lifting at one corner in a way that left her momentarily floundering ... "Didn?t you see me?" she snapped, irritably and diverted her gaze to his car, pushing away disturbing memories. "Doesn?t that heap of junk have a rear view mirror?" "Heap of junk?" Now Tom was offended. "My car, madam, is a hand-built '60s classic. The finest ? " "Classic? That?s another word for old, right?" Then she seemed to forget about insulting his pride and joy and reached into her car to pick up the squawking handset. "Harry, sweetheart, I?ll call you in the morning. Miss you..." She made kissy noises into the receiver. The lady was spoken for, it seemed, and for once Tom found himself wishing it were otherwise. Which didn?t improve his mood. "And what do you use your rearview mirror for, sweetheart?" he inquired softly, as she switched off the phone and gave her attention to the more immediate problem of the car. "Fixing your hair ? " "Oh, please!" Then, "But what can you expect from a man who drives an outdated car except old-fashioned, chauvinistic ideas to match?" "Fixing your hair while you?re on the phone chatting to your boyfriend?" he concluded. "You won?t be his best girl when he sees the damage to his car." She ignored the taunt. "Just give me your insurance details and shift that superannuated heap out of the way so that I can park," she said. "I?m going to be late for my weekend workshop." "Workshop? You?re going to the Mollie Blake thing? Me too." "Really?" She sounded skceptical. He didn?t blame her. "Absolutely. Can?t wait," he said, making a virtue out of a necessity. "So, why don?t we go inside and trade dents in comfort? I?m sure we can sort this out amicably over a drink." "Can?t wait," she echoed, faintly. Tom parked, grabbed his bag from the boot and they reached the hotel doorway at the same time. As he pushed the door open and held it for her, she turned on automatic to thank him, and the light caught her face.
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That?s when he remembered where he?d heard the voice before. Younger... Sweeter... She?d changed, changed beyond recognition, but a man wasn?t likely to forget the voice of the woman he?d married. Even if the marriage had lasted barely long enough for the Registrar?s signature to dry on the certificate. "Thank you..." Mollie Blake took the door, waited for him to follow her into the light of the foyer, waited for him to fill in the blank of his name. But he hadn?t moved out of the shadows. Said nothing. "Are you all right?" The last thing she wanted was to get cozy with this man, but when he still didn?t move, she became concerned. "Did you get a whiplash or something?" "Yes, that is, no..." Tom stopped, gathered himself. "I?m fine," he said carefully. It was a lie. He wouldn?t have known her if they?d passed in the street. Hadn?t quite remembered a voice not heard for more than five years. But the eyes... He would never forget a pair of liquid gray eyes that had once bewitched him. Mary Harrington had been soft, sweet, an absurdly young 20-year-old, with mousy hair, lingering baby fat, and shoulders rounded from her attempts to disguise her height. Over-protected by dominating parents, she?d been dangerously naïve. Not his type of girl. No way. Shy and sweetly innocent and never-been-kissed, at least not the way he?d kissed her. Maybe that was part of the attraction for a girl kept on too short a leash. The danger. And his excuse? That he?d been captivated by something fresh, untouched, that had shone from her? No one had believed that. Not for a minute. "Mary." He said her name. That was all. Mollie caught her breath as every cell in her body went on red alert, responding with a familiar rush of adrenaline to the softness of her name on this man?s lips. Her real name. Mary. No one had called her that in so long. Only... She gave a choked cry as he stepped inside, let the door swing shut behind him. "Tom?" She said his name hesitantly, half lifted her hand to his face as if to touch it, reassure herself that he was real and not some figment of her imagination. Then, as the light fell full onto his face, the blood drained from hers and reality kicked in. The last time she?d seen him he?d been shouting to be heard over the angry voices, her tears, as she?d been surrounded by her family and bustled away from the Registrar?s Office they?d chosen for their secret runaway wedding. Swearing that he?d be back, that nothing, no one, could keep him away. He?d been struggling then, a newly published author, with an edge of danger to lend him glamor. He?d matured, taken on polish along with the fame, the streetwise edge had been smoothed from his voice and he looked...great. But he was still a liar. "It?s been a long time," he said. She choked back the words gathering in her throat. The "Where were you? I waited but you didn?t come" words. "Not long enough," she replied and he flinched as if she?d hit him and how many times over the years had she dreamed of doing just that? There was no pleasure in it, she discovered, as she turned and walked away, dropping her bag beside the hotel desk. Just an overwhelming sadness. "Not one more tear," she whispered shakily, as she gripped the pen, filled in the form. "?Not one." "I?m sorry, madam?" "Nothing." Nothing. What a joke! Everything, more like it. The weekend was a mess. Jerry?s car was mess. That was Tom Garrick for you. He could make a mess just crooking one of those expressive eyebrows. But
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she?d get the car fixed, just as she?d fixed her battered heart. It would look okay. Work efficiently. Only she would know the difference, that it would never be quite the same again, never be quite perfect. "Mary ? " She swung round to face him. "I?m busy, Mr. Garrick." She picked up her bag, but he beat her to her key and he clearly wasn?t going to surrender it until he?d got whatever it was he wanted. "Please, Tom! What do you want? What are you doing here?" Tom heard the desperation in her voice. The unspoken plea for him to leave her alone. Well, he would. But not until he?d got some answers. He was entitled to answers. "My editor thinks I need to woo my women readers," he said, relieving her of her bag and heading for the stairs. "He?s hoping that the brilliant Mollie Blake will pass on a few of her secrets." "?Don?t count on it." He glanced back. "You think I?m wasting my time?" "No, you?re wasting mine. Please give me my key." He handed it over without a word. "And my bag." "You shouldn?t be carrying anything this heavy. Has your mother put padlocks on all your ? ?" He?d been going to say underwear, but remembered the kissy-kissy phone call. Obviously not. She wasn?t wearing his ring and Tom wondered if her boyfriend knew she was still a married woman. Maybe the boyfriend didn?t care. "This is my room." She stopped, but pointedly, did not unlock the door. He wasn?t ready to move on yet. "Why didn?t you ever bother with a divorce?" he asked. "I was sure daddy would insist." If he was hoping to provoke a reaction, crack the cool façade, he failed miserably. She slid the key in the lock, opened the door and picking up her bag in the same smooth movement, shut it in his face. Despite everything, he knew that given the choice, he?d still have rather been on the other side of it. Mollie leaned back against the door, fighting the weakness, the temptation to fling it open and race after him, demand to know if it had been worth it. She shut her eyes, as if to shut him out of her mind, her heart. She wasn?t that gullible girl he?d married. No way. *** According to the program left in Tom?s room, there was to be a reception to meet the famous Mollie Blake before dinner. The noise of the crowd rose to meet him as he went downstairs, but that wasn?t why he paused. Mary was ahead of him, stunning in a long sea-green silk tunic worn over a pair of chiffon trousers that billowed transparently around her legs. And heels as high as the Andes. As if sensing his presence, she glanced back and for a heartbeat he saw through the expensive designer style to the girl who?d smiled so shyly at him and stolen his cynical heart. Uncertain, awkward, way out of her depth. And he reached out, took her arm, felt its warmth beneath his fingers. For a moment they were transported back five years, to a party getting out of control, when he?d seen how scared she was and whisked her out of harm?s way... Then someone turned and saw them. "Look, she?s here! It?s Mollie Blake!" Tom turned to the eager faces of the women surging towards them, saw the momentary panic in hers. "No," he said, stepping forward, to protect her. "This isn?t Mollie Blake. This is ? " "Don?t!"
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Her sharp interjection was a millisecond too late. " ? my wife." "Mollie, I?m Rachel Gibson. We spoke on the telephone. I didn?t realize you were bringing your husband with you." Rachel turned to Tom. "I had no idea that you and Ms. Blake..." She foundered on the confusion of the names. "I?ve seen you on television of course and my husband adores your books." He smiled but before he could engage her, divert her from Mary, she said, "I?m so sorry about your room, Mollie. I thought you were coming alone. I?m afraid the two of you will be desperately cramped..." Tom let her twitter on, even though she was mistaken. His concern was all for Mary. She was riveted to the spot, her luminous gray eyes filled with panic exactly as they had been when he?d first seen her... "Ms. Gibson. Rachel," he said, in an effort to stop the woman. "I?m afraid you?ve made a ? " "No!" Mary?s hand tightened on his arm, warning him not to go on. And that?s when the truth struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. There was no mistake here. Only the one he was making. Mollie... He remembered now that her mother had called her that. Mary Harrington was Mollie Blake. The girl he?d run away with ? secretly married, then lost ? was the brilliant, reclusive young woman who?d taken the publishing industry by storm. Which went a long towards explaining why she was publicity shy. After her first book was published, he and Mollie Blake had been invited to share the stage at a literary festival together. An unlikely pairing, but one the organizers felt had mass appeal. But it had never happened. She?d cried off with "family problems." Well, he could understand that. Her family had always been a problem. "Will that be all right, Mollie? Shall we do that?" She clearly hadn?t taken in Rachel?s question. "That?ll be fine," Tom said, quickly, rescuing her. He hadn?t been listening, either, but his answer seemed to make the woman happy. "I?ll see to it. Now, Mollie, everyone is simply dying to meet you." He watched anxiously as she was swallowed up in a throng of eager fans. That?s how he?d lost her before, as she?d been circled by her family, cut off from him, swept out of reach... "Are you here to research a book, Mr. Garrick?" He dragged his attention from the stranger who was his wife, his heart sinking as he saw the eager face of a reporter from the local newspaper. Mollie Blake was certainly getting the celebrity treatment. "Or are you just here to give your wife the benefit of your wide experience? She doesn?t usually do this sort of thing, does she? Is that why your marriage has been kept such a secret?" she continued with a barrage of questions, her eyes alight with the prospect of a "big story." "It?s not a secret." It was a matter of public record like any marriage. "My wife simply prefers not to live in the media spotlight," he said, enjoying the novelty of the word "wife." He was sick of the publicity too, but he?d dredge up something outrageous to keep the reporter satisfied. "?Can I get you a drink ? " He glanced at her name badge and smiled, "Lucy?" *** Mollie pushed her dessert around her plate. "Not hungry, sweetheart?" "Don?t call me that. I?m not your sweetheart." She?d insisted that it wasn?t necessary, but Rachel had rearranged the seating plan so that "her husband"
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could sit by her. And he was still legally that. ?Til death do us part, she?d promised. And she?d meant it. They?d said she was stubborn and stupid and they were probably right. Maybe if her parents hadn?t tried to force her into a divorce she?d have given in and signed the papers. But he hadn?t bothered with it, either. She?d never understood why. It had been too late by then to prove her father had been wrong about him. Tom leaned towards her, his jacket brushing against her sleeve in a gesture of such intimacy that she felt naked. He could do that to her with just a look. His eyes were so eloquent. They said, I see you ? in my mind I?m touching you... As her fork clattered to the floor, he caught her hand, held it to still her shaking fingers. "Nervous, Mary?" he asked. "Not nervous. Angry. And don?t call me that." "It?s your name. Mollie ? " he shrugged, " ? is just the baby name your mother persisted in calling you, long after it was obvious to anyone with eyes to see that you weren?t a baby anymore." He was still touching her... She?d tried to forget how good that felt, blot him out. She should hate him. "Leave my mother out of this. I haven?t..." No. She wouldn?t give him the satisfaction of telling him that. "What?" His gaze held hers remorselessly. "What haven?t you done?" "Nothing. Just... I?m Mollie, that?s all. Always have been, always will be." "Mollie!" someone called out, as if to prove her point and she glanced round, gratefully. There was a bright flash and, too late, she realized that she?d been photographed with her hand in Tom?s, like some "lost in love" teenager. "Oh, terrific," she said. "Maybe you?re right," he murmured, his grin doing nothing to help. "Mollie." She wished. It was the sexy way he?d said her name that had got her into trouble in the first place. Still could, she realized, belatedly snatching her hand away. She didn?t know how she was going to get through the weekend with him there, watching her through narrowed, knowing eyes. Remembering how it had been. Deliberately she turned away, engaging the woman opposite in conversation. *** The evening workshop went well, but it was a relief to escape while Tom was busy chatting up the press. Well, he?d got a lot to tell them. She just hoped they remembered he wrote fiction. "My key, please," she said at the front desk, as the receptionist looked up. "And mine," Tom said, over her shoulder. The receptionist beamed at them both. "Rachel explained about the mix-up and we?ve moved you into the Windsor suite ? " "No! No really," Mollie said firmly, "that isn?t necessary. I don?t want to be a nuisance." "No problem. The housekeeper supervised the move while you were at dinner." "But ? " "Rachel said she?d cleared it with you." The young woman was clearly growing a little puzzled by their reaction.
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Tom?s hand closed warningly on Mollie?s shoulder. "Yes," he said. "She did." "Not with me she didn?t," Mollie hissed as, with his arm firmly about her shoulders he directed her towards the stairs. "You weren?t listening." Neither of them had been listening to Rachel Gibson, but it had been him who?d filled in her expectant pause with a thoughtless, "That?ll be fine..." "You agreed to this?" She dug her heels into the thick carpet and forced him to stop. "Just what do you think you?re playing at?" He glanced around. The furiously muttered interchange had attracted attention. People were staring. Not good. "Right now, sweetheart? I?m doing you a favor and playing at being a loving husband." And by way of demonstration, he lowered his mouth to hers and before she could protest, he kissed her. Kissing Mollie was the best idea he?d had all evening Tom Garrick decided. And the worst. He?d caught her off guard, she?d had no chance to put up barriers, mental or physical, and her mouth was as soft and sweet as in the dreams that had never ceased to torment him. But dreams were transitory things that were banished in the harsh light of day when it was easy to remind himself that the sweetness had been an illusion. That when it came right down to it, her genes ran true to type. This wasn?t a dream. He wasn?t about to wake up and get a reality check. Mollie had dreamed of this. Night after night she?d dreamed that Tom would find her, come for her, take her in his arms and kiss her like this. It was only after she?d finally accepted the truth that she?d stopped seeking the solace of dreams and had fought to stay awake any way she could. Sitting up, night after night, writing the fantasy ? the hero who would cross continents, brave fire and flood for the woman he loved. Pouring her breaking heart out onto the paper. This wasn?t a dream. Tom wasn?t her hero, far from it, and she pulled back sharply, stumbling a little as she realized too late that his hands were not holding her, or compelling her, but simply offering support. That she could have stopped the kiss at any moment she chose... But she?d lingered, clinging to him like a drowning man to a shipwreck. "You shouldn?t ? " she began, her voice little more than a croak. "I didn?t ? " "I know," he said, softly, putting a finger to her lips in a gentle warning to be silent. "But save your feelings until we?re somewhere more private. I?ve just about managed to convince the local reporter that she doesn?t have a story." He smiled wryly at that. "The national newspapers aren?t interested in boringly happy celebrities. Don?t ruin all my hard work by throwing a fit in public and giving her a tabloid headline." Tom let out a breath of relief as Mollie groaned softly, let her head fall against his shirt front and allowed him to usher her up the stairs, out of sight of prying eyes. "The Windsor Suite," he said, approaching the door, sliding the key into the lock, ushering her resisting body through the door. "Do you suppose...?" He stopped as they stepped over the threshold. Yes, there was. He could see the majestic four-poster bed through the double doors that opened into the bedroom. "Don?t!" She stepped away from him, holding up her hands as if to ward him off. "Don?t even think about it ? " "What? Oh, the bed..." And he paused just long enough to let her think about it.
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"No, I was simply wondering..." he mentally crossed his fingers, "if there?s a sofa." There was. A fancy brocade thing that didn?t look comfortable enough to sit on, let alone sleep on. "Quit wondering. Just collect your things and go." "Go where? You want me to go back down there and tell them the truth?" "The great Tom Garrick admit that his wife threw him out of their room? I don?t think so. You love your car so much, sleep in that." "Cold and uncomfortable." He knew all about that. Sitting outside her home day and night, refusing to go away despite the threats. Then her father had called the police and he?d been arrested "on suspicion". When he?d been released the house was empty. And all that remained of his car was a crushed cube of metal at the side of the curb. Mollie?s note had arrived in the post the next day. "So, it?s cold. You should have thought of that before you rearranged the accommodation." "I didn?t ? " he began, then let it go. In her position he wouldn?t have believed him either. "I?m trying to keep things civilized, Mollie. I don?t want to share your bed." It wasn?t a lie. His body would catch up with his head eventually. Mollie?s fingers curled into her palms, the nails cutting into her flesh. Had it been so difficult for him? Had bedding the innocent virgin been a real bore? It hadn?t been like that for her. He?d made her feel like a princess, so special...Had even that been faked? She dug her nails in harder. "You don?t have any say in the matter." He held up his hands. All innocence. "You know me, darling. I never went where I wasn?t invited." She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she remembered. Saw that he remembered. "Did I?" he pushed, forcing her to acknowledge a desire beyond reason. She had to be strong. Forget the kiss. Forget the spiraling desire that had blotted out five years in an instant. Tom had always been trouble. She?d known it from the moment he?d walked into that party, turning heads of girls who practically fell over themselves to get at him. She?d looked, she wasn?t made of stone, but she?d known he wouldn?t be interested in her. Then he?d turned, attracted by the commotion as she tried to escape the attentions of some idiot who?d had too much to drink. For a moment the world had stopped turning and then he?d said her name. She?d been too stunned that he knew it to answer him. But it hadn?t mattered. He?d reached out, taken her hand, held it for a moment as if to reassure her before walking out of the party with her. Walking away with her, body, heart, and soul. "Mollie?" He was doing it again. "Please, don?t..." "You loved it when I said your name like that," he persisted. He was closer. She could feel his breath on her face. "That was before I knew..." He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and her cheek welcomed the touch, longed to nestle against his palm.
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"Before you knew what?" This was dangerous. She needed to keep a clear head. To remember..."That you?d made a virtue out of your mistake. You didn?t know then that I had a pet name. You just knew I was Mary Harrington. The only child of Sir Charles Harrington. Landowner. Banker. Millionaire. You saw me being harassed by some lout at a party and you thought...bingo." "You believed that?" She hadn?t wanted to. She?d protested that Tom loved her ? would do nothing to hurt her. "You really believed that?" "I didn?t want to, Tom." At first she?d refused to believe it. So her father had set about proving it to her. It could so easily have destroyed her, and indeed came close. But as she?d held her baby in her arms she?d felt only strength, the overwhelming rush of love, joy that she?d gotten this one thing right. She wasn?t going to ruin it all simply because, despite everything, she?d never been able to stop loving Tom Garrick. "But we both know that it?s true." "You believed I wanted you for your money?" Tom asked again. Mollie said nothing, which was answer enough. Stunned, not because her family had lied to her about him, but that she?d believed them, Tom let his hand fall to his side. "Why would I need your money? I had a contract for three books, film options ? " "Please! Don?t treat me like a fool all over again, Tom. It had taken you five years to get published, five years of living hand-to-mouth, doing anything you could to pay the bills ? " It took a will of iron to survive, to keep going through the rejections, hold on to the self-belief. Mollie hadn?t had to starve in a shack, but once she?d refused to go along with her father?s plans to put her life back together, it had been hard enough. She broke off as the phone beside the bed began to ring. She turned away from him, picked it up, rapped out her name. Dear lord! She had so nearly told him that she understood. That she knew how hard it was, that she didn?t blame him. Of course she blamed him. Not for taking advantage of a stupid, naïve young girl who?d allowed herself to believe the fairy tale. She blamed him for not caring whether he?d had a son, or a daughter. Even now he hadn?t asked about their child. It was as if he?d forgotten that she?d ever been pregnant. She glanced at him and frowned. Did he think she?d swept the whole thing under the carpet? Had their son adopted? Was he waiting for her to say something first? "Mollie, dear?" Her caller prompted. "What?" she asked, distractedly. Then, "Oh, sorry ? " "Are you all right? You sound tense." Angie Blake knew her too well. Mollie forced herself to smile before she answered. Tom picked up his bag. It was empty. They hadn?t just been moved, they?d been treated to a full valet service. Great. He really needed to hear her getting cozy with the owner of the Porsche as they cootchiecooed goodnight. He pulled open a drawer, started to fling his clothes in the bag as she sank to the edge of the bed, kicked off her shoes, her mouth softening into a smile. "No, I?m fine, really. How are things at home?" Home? They lived together? His heart clenched painfully in his chest. He felt...jealous. Hurt. Angry. That should have been him, at home taking care of their kids, while she did her great novelist thing... He dragged his thoughts back from the precipice. Tried to imagine how it had been for her. They?d lied to her about him, those pillars of the community, Sir Charles and Lady Harrington.
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He didn?t fit the image they had of a suitable husband for their daughter, so they?d isolated her, lied to her, alternating between coaxing and bullying to get her to agree to an abortion, ending the precious life they?d made together. She must have felt so alone and frightened. If only she?d had faith in him, believed in him, trusted him, held on. He?d loved her so much, would have died for her ? had died, inside, where it really counted. He stopped stuffing his clothes into his bag. If only he?d understood at the time just how ruthless they could be. "Don?t fuss!" She was laughing now as this man worried about her, fussed over her. He wouldn?t have believed it was possible how much that hurt. She was still his wife. She?d held out against divorce at least... He stared at her frowning. Why? What had been the point? That was it! There was something wrong about this whole set-up and he was going nowhere until he?d got to the bottom of it. He crossed the room and plucked the receiver from her fingers, just as she was telling her lover about the idiot who had rear-ended her car. "I?m not some idiot," he said, into the mouthpiece. "I?m Mollie?s husband ? " "Tom!" she protested. "And we have a great deal to talk about." Then he cut off the call. "Tom! You can?t do that!" "Mollie," he said, very quietly. "I just did." "But ? " "But?" He waited but there was no further reproof. Only her breast rising and falling too quickly, the heat building in her eyes until the silver was molten with desire, the telltale flush that heated her cheeks, betraying her deepest need. He recognized it instantly ? because it was his deepest need too... The years melted away as he touched her face, his fingers cool against her cheeks and Mollie whimpered softly, unable to catch the telltale sound. But then she?d always known how it would be. That there could be never be anyone else for her... He brushed back a loose tendril of hair, tucked it behind her ear, long fingers sliding through her hair as he cradled her head. So gentle. She?d loved his gentleness. Loved him. "?Til death us do part," she murmured. Nothing had changed. "Mollie..." His voice brushed velvet against her skin. His eyes were liquid dark with a desire that he couldn?t hide. No other man had ever looked at her like that, making her feel worshipped and deliciously wicked, all at the same time. Whatever else he?d wanted, she didn?t doubt that at that moment he desired her as deeply as she yearned for him. Maybe they could turn the clock back, put right the mistakes they?d both made. All it took was courage. And putting her heart on the line, she stepped into his arms and kissed him, boldly, her arms curling around his neck, offering him a second chance. Mollie?s mouth was warm, her tongue silky sweet, intoxicating, her body pressed against the length of his. It required Tom?s total concentration to hold back, let her set the pace, take control of where this was going. When her mouth trailed moist kisses from his mouth to his throat, her fingers loosening the buttons on his shirt, he was pleased to play follow-the-leader. When her tongue teased at the hollows in his shoulder, her teeth nipped at his skin, he was just half a step behind.
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But concentration was tougher with every passing moment. He was learning fast that following rather than leading, letting her decide what happened next, teasing him as he tried to anticipate her next move, was blowing his mind. The thought that had snagged at his memory in the moments before she?d kissed him was completely forgotten in the heat of their passion. If this was getting in touch with his feminine side, he was a convert. "Tom..." she whispered, her voice no more than a caress... She said his name as he?d once said hers and his last coherent thought was that the past didn?t matter... Tom woke feeling different, strange, and for a moment couldn?t think why. Then Mollie?s head shifted against his shoulder and he knew. This strange, almost forgotten feeling was happiness. For a while he watched her, sleeping within the circle of his arm. It was a perfect moment. Asleep she was totally his. Once they were awake he?d have to contend with the real world and the owner of the Porsche. Mollie woke with a slow, blissful drift into consciousness from a state of pure happiness. There hadn?t been many moments like it in her life. The few precious weeks when she?d first met Tom. The first time she?d held Harry. This moment. Maybe. She opened her eyes and saw that Tom was already awake, looking at her with an expression of such tenderness that she caught at her breath. "I thought I must be dreaming." "Better pinch yourself to be sure," he suggested, the tenderness transposing itself into the wickedest of grins. "Or maybe I can help." His hand stroked softly over her hip, her thigh, as if seeking a suitable place for his demonstration, but since he was also kissing her it took a tap at the door to convince her that she was awake. "Ignore it," he said. "It?s just tea and the paper." "Tea? Dear lord, what time is it?" "Relax, sweetheart." He resumed the tender trawling of her neck with his lips, but she grabbed his wrist so that she could see his watch. "Oh, heck. Let me up, Tom. Please. I?ve got a workshop in half an hour." He surrendered to the inevitable and rolled over onto his back to watch her as she grabbed her robe and tied it around her waist. Mollie tried to marshal thoughts that seemed determined on doing their own thing. With Tom. She had to stop looking at Tom, thinking about last night...the rest of her life. She had to phone home, she reminded herself forcefully. Right now. Harry would be hopping around, driving Angie mad waiting for her call. She headed for the phone. Then she?d grab a quick shower ? with Tom? No! She?d read her workshop notes over a cup of tea, there was no time for breakfast... She suddenly thought of something else on her to-do list. "Oh, heck," she said again and Tom?s brows rose in query. "I?ve got to call Jerry." Tom?s brows snapped together. "Jerry?" he repeated. "I thought his name was Harry." Mollie, her hand poised above the phone, stilled, went cold. Tom knew about Harry. All through a long and blissful night spent in passionate rediscovery of each other, their need had been to touch, to hold each other. They had all the time in the world for the whys and the hows, at least that was how it had seemed to her. But Tom didn?t need the whys, or the hows. He hadn?t said a word to her, asked about their son. Yet he?d known about Harry all along.
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And in that split second she knew what Tom had done. In her mind she saw again the check that her father had laid in front of her with the cashier?s stamp on it, proof of her brand-new husband?s betrayal. He was doing it again. The ridiculous story about attending the workshop to brush up on his technique. This was Tom Garrick, for heaven?s sake... Then there was the cliché of the collision in the car park, the pretence that he didn?t know who she was. The publishing world was small. He?d probably found out who she was purely by chance. Dug around a little. Then remembered that there was a second seam to the gold mine. Charles Harrington had paid up without a murmur to get his pathetic daughter back. How much more would he give to keep control of his grandson? Tom had been so clever. She hadn?t suspected a thing, not even when he?d switched the rooms. The phone rang once, twice, three times before she could force herself to move, lift the receiver. "Mollie Blake," she said. She was cold. So cold that if someone just tapped her she would shatter... "Mollie, thank heavens. Now, lovie, you?re not to worry..." She heard Angie?s voice, but nothing registered until "worry." "What?s happened?" "Harry?s had a tumble on the stairs. You know how excited he gets and the phone rang and he thought it was you. We?re at the hospital and the doctor?s with him now ? " Mollie?s mind was suddenly crystal clear. "Which hospital? I?ll be right there." She grabbed the first clothes that came to hand and, shedding the robe, began to dress. "What?s happened? What?s the matter?" She stared at Tom for a moment. Then she said, "He?s had an accident. I?ve got to go to him." Tom saw her face and knew that he was in trouble. She cared about this man, really cared and he allowed himself the indulgence of five seconds in which to hope that his rival was in serious pain. Then he flung back the bedclothes and joined her in the scramble for clothes. "What are you doing?" "You?re in no fit state to drive." "Forget it, Tom," she said. "It?s not going to work." Her eyes were swimming with tears but as he put out a hand to touch her, reassure her, he saw every shade of emotion cross her features from pain to guilt. "Please just go away and forget it." "I can?t. Not after last night." "You don?t have a choice. I?ve made two mistakes in my life. The first one was marrying you. The second was last night." He let his hand fall to his side. This was not the moment to point out to her that last night had been her idea, that she?d led every step of the way. And definitely not the moment to bring up the way she?d clung to him, the need in her voice as she cried out for him. It was the moment to be practical. "You can?t drive the Porsche," he reminded her. "The rear lights are smashed." "I?ll call a taxi." "You won?t do anything of the kind." Guilt was driving her to reject him. Harry had been in pain while she?d
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been in his arms. She was pushing him away, trying to wipe out the night they?d spent together. Tom wasn?t going to let that happen. "It?ll take forever for a taxi to get here," he said, taking her coat from the wardrobe, gathering her handbag as she still hesitated, glancing uncertainly at the phone. "He needs you now, Mollie." She turned on him. "Please don?t pretend you care ? " "Mollie, please don?t ? " "What?" Blame yourself. That?s what he?d been going to say. Please don?t blame yourself. Bad idea. What, then? Please don?t worry about this man who, despite last night, I can see from your eyes means everything in the world to you? He tried not to think about that. "Please don?t let?s waste time arguing." That did it. With a small mew of anxiety that tugged painfully at his heartstrings, she turned and headed for the door. Mollie never wanted to live through another journey like that, her mind running over every nightmare scenario a mother feared, while Tom, grimly silent, concentrated on the road, edging the speed limit every inch of the way. He pulled up at the entrance to the hospital and made a move to get out, open the door for her. "Don?t!" she said. Then, "You can?t stay here." "I know. I?m going to park ? " "There?s no need. I appreciate the lift but you don?t have to stay. I don?t want you to stay." She climbed out as quickly as she could, discovering too late that her legs were like jelly and she was shaking uncontrollably. Tom was at her side in a moment, his arm at her back, holding her gently while she steadied herself. "He?ll be all right," Tom said, reassuringly. "Will he?" Angie had said it was nothing serious, but... "He fell on the stairs ? " For the briefest moment he put his arms about her and she clung to him for comfort as he hugged her. Then he straightened, pointed her in the direction of the door. "Go," he said. "Go and find him. I?ll be with you as soon as I?ve parked." "No." Her ache for her husband had never diminished and last night was a memory that she wanted to keep as something special, untarnished. But Tom was so good at this, his warmth so seductive. She didn?t care about herself, but Harry would love him too and then Tom would leave them both. She took a deep breath. "I don?t want you to stay," she repeated, pushing the words out, one at a time, each one a blow to her heart. "You tried, Tom. It didn?t work. Please don?t make things worse." Tom could feel her pain and it twisted his gut like a fork tangling up spaghetti. "Mollie, you?re stressed. Let?s talk about this later." "Please! For once in your life do something completely unselfish. Walk away. Drive away. Now." He understood why she felt she had to send him away, but he wasn?t going anywhere. "You?ll have to go back to the hotel for your things. If I leave now how will you get there?" She groaned. "The hotel! The workshop! They?ll all be waiting ? " "Forget the workshop. I?ll sort it out." She looked at him doubtfully for a moment. "Trust me," he said. "I?m a writer."
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"?That?s not a character reference." "No, but it means I can find someone to take on your wretched workshop so that you can forget it. Go and see what?s happened to Harry." She hesitated, then accepting she needed him for this said, "Thank you." "You?re entirely welcome," he murmured, giving thanks for this one small victory as she walked away from him and was swallowed up in the frantic swirl of activity in the accident and emergency department. He parked, found a phone, called a well-loved writer who lived 10 minutes? drive from the hotel and promised her his soul in return for taking over the workshop, then he called Rachel and put her in the picture. Only then did he head back to Accident & Emergency. Tom knew that very formal "thank you" from Mollie had meant goodbye, but she?d need him, if only to get home. Maybe, if Harry was badly injured, she?d need him for a lot more than that and he?d be there. Always. He wasn?t fooling himself. Last night was rapidly looking like a one-off. What, for a moment, had seemed like a new start to a golden future had been put on indefinite hold by Harry?s accident. Mollie wasn?t in the waiting room and he realized he didn?t have Harry?s surname to inquire where he?d been taken. "Tom Garrick? You are Tom Garrick? I?ve seen your photograph in the newspapers." He smothered a groan. The last thing he needed was an eager fan and he turned reluctantly to be confronted by a small motherly woman. "Mollie?s with the doctor." "You were with Harry? Is it very bad?" "He?ll survive." That could mean anything. Years in a coma, life in a wheelchair. And he knew that he could do nothing to protect Mollie from the consequences of that. He would never persuade her to leave Harry if the man needed her. "I?m Angie Blake in case you were wondering," the woman added. "Blake?" So that?s where Mollie had acquired her new surname. "We spoke, or at least you spoke, on the phone last night," she said. "Last night? But ? " "I cleaned for Lady Harrington, years ago," she said, taking pity on his confusion. "I only stuck it out for Mollie. You know, her parents had always wanted a boy, never forgave her for being a girl, poor mite. She came to me when she finally made the break from them." Angie put her head on one side. "It?s about time you put in an appearance. I just hope you?re not planning another kiss and run." And she smiled into the space behind him and began to move. "Here they are." He spun round. Mollie had her back to him as she thanked the doctor. She was gloriously, beautifully disheveled in the mismatched assortment of clothes she?d thrown on in her rush to get to the hospital, and he loved her so much that it hurt. But love sometimes meant sacrifice. Making things easy for the other person ? He watched as she shook the doctor?s hand, then turned to look around the waiting room for Angie. That?s when he saw the child she was holding, his little arm protected by a light cast.
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A child who could only be a few months over four years old, with a mop of dark curly hair and laughing gray eyes. A boy he recognized from faded photographs of himself at that age. The boy wriggled in his mother?s arms, impatient to be let down so that he could show Angie Blake his cast. Tom took a step forward, tried to speak, say something, anything. "Harry?" The child stopped fidgeting, glanced at him curiously. Turned to his mother. "Who?s that?" Mollie thanked the doctor, then turned to look for Angie and with a sinking heart realized that Tom was with her. But as he turned, saw them, she saw no gleam of triumph, or avarice light up his eyes. There was only confusion swiftly followed by recognition and color-draining shock. Then he took a step forward as if in a dream, and reached out for the boy, said his name. Asking who he was, Harry stopped wriggling then, after a moment?s thought, leaned away from her, holding out his arms, eager to make a new friend. The child reached out to him and Tom took him, held him for a moment, settled him against his chest, robbed of speech by the purest wonder. Harry, though, wanted to show off his battle trophies. "I?ve broken my arm," he said, confidentially. "Look." And he held up the cast for Tom to see. Tom?s throat was so tight that he was forced to swallow before he could speak. "Did it hurt?" "A bit," Harry admitted. "I didn?t cry though." Then, with a tiny frown, he asked again, "Who are you?" "I...I?m your daddy." Mollie?s throat was tight with suppressed tears as, with a look of wonderment, Tom gently brushed his finger against Harry?s cheek. "I?m your daddy," he repeated, as if the words were brand new. As if he were the first man in history to say them. "Really?" Tom nodded wordlessly, as Harry considered his response. "I didn?t know I had a daddy." Mollie?s hand flew to her mouth as Harry turned to her. "Can I show Daddy my car when we get home?" "You?ve got a car?" Tom asked. "It?s got a horn and lights and everything. I have to drive it in the garden though, not on the road." "Will you give me a ride?" Harry giggled. "You?re too big." "It?s a pedal car," Mollie cut in, quickly. Speaking had been a mistake. It reminded Tom that she was there. And his eyes, as he looked up, lost the soft mistiness of emotional overload, warning her that she?d better have a good reason for keeping his son from him. Well, he needn?t think that a belated attack of fatherly feelings would impress her. She?d had a good reason as he very well knew. "I?ll go and fetch the car, shall I?"? Angie suggested. "Good idea," Tom said. "We?ll all go home together." "But your car ? " Mollie interjected. She was losing control. Correction, she?d lost control the moment Tom Garrick walked back into her life.
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"I?m coming with you and Harry," he said. His voice remained quiet, but with a strand of steel that warned her she?d better not argue. And for the first time in five years she felt a moment of doubt. *** "How could you have done it? Kept him from me?" They were home. Tom had admired Harry?s car and every possession he held dear with a patience that left her pulling her lips tightly back against her teeth. Finally, Angie had tempted Harry away for lunch and now they were alone. "You really didn?t know?" Mollie asked. "Do you think that if I?d known I had a son, anything would have stopped me from finding you both?" The doubts intensified and she swallowed hard before she forced out the words. "Not even a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" "Is that how much they said I took to walk away?" He shook his head, then bit out, "I don?t know which is worse. That you believed I?d take their money. Or that you?d value yourself so low." "Then...what did you think I?d done, Tom?" "Don?t ask." Don?t ask him to tell her about the painful images that he?d lived with. Tom couldn?t believe he?d been so gullible, so easily taken in. But the letter had been in her handwriting, signed by her. "Don?t ask," he repeated. "You don?t want to know what I believed." He swung round to stare out at the garden so that he didn?t have to see the look in her eyes as she realized the truth ? that he thought she?d gotten rid of her unborn baby. "It was all a lie. A filthy, stinking, rotten lie and I believed it." He rubbed at his face as if to wipe away the guilt. "God help me, I believed it. I suppose I?ve got no more than I deserved for not trusting in you." And the elusive thought that had been bothering him before they?d made love last night finally crystallized perfectly in his mind. "I mean, what was I thinking? Your parents couldn?t bully you into a divorce so why on earth did I believe that you would have surrendered on something so much bigger, so much more important?" "Tell me, Tom," she insisted. "Tell me what they said." "Said? They didn?t have to say anything." He?d carried the letter with him always. A warning never to love again, never to trust his heart. He reached into his jacket and from the back of his wallet he extracted the letter, turned and held it out to her. Mollie took the wretched piece of paper. It had been ripped into pieces, then stuck back together. The creases were worn with handling and it was only the tape that was holding it together. It didn?t take long to read. Tom ? it?s all been a terrible mistake. I?ve had an abortion. I don?t want to see you ever again, Mollie. She made a small, involuntary sound as she imagined his pain... Then she looked up. "I didn?t write this, Tom, my mother did." She folded it back up into the worn creases and offered it back to him. He shook his head. "She had such beautiful handwriting. I worked hard to copy it." Then, "If it?s any consolation, trying to persuade me into an abortion was the last straw. I left with Angie and we?ve never been back. They?ve never seen Harry." "?Don?t apologize. Don?t ever apologize for your family. I?m the one who should be groveling here." "No ? " She lifted her chin a little. "?We both made mistakes. I should have been stronger ? if I?d had the
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courage to tell them that I loved you instead of persuading you into a secret wedding, if we?d stood together they couldn?t have parted us. But penniless writer runs off with heiress... That put you in the wrong from the word go." "Not penniless. Far from it." She shrugged, hopelessly. "Who would have believed you wanted me just for my body?" "It?s a great body, but I swear I love your mind, too..." He offered a tentative smile along with his hand. She took it briefly, then turned to a small desk. "My mind isn?t that great. I doubted you too, when I should have believed." She opened a drawer, stared for a moment at the check for one hundred thousand pounds bearing a cashier?s stamp: Paid in full. She picked it up, turned and gave it to him. "I?ve never seen this before." He looked up. "It?s made out to me but ? " "Lies," she said. "They did it to both of us. My father laughed when he gave it to me. He said you were cheap, that he?d have paid five times that amount to prove to me what kind of man you were." "What kind of man do you believe I am, Mollie?" He laid his hand against her cheek, his eyes soft as melted toffee. It felt so perfect, as if she?d spent the last four years holding her breath, waiting for this moment. And she leaned into him, rubbing her face against his palm. "You?re like most men, Tom," she murmured. "A long way from perfect. But then perfect would be tough to live with. You?re a lot better than most." She turned and kissed his hand, looked up at him. "The only man in the world I?ve ever loved." Then, her voice straining through a throat thick with tears, "This is where you get to kiss me," she prompted, sliding her hand into his hair, tangling it in her fingers to draw him closer to her. "And the orchestra plays the violins." His smile was slow, but his eyes were heating her from the inside out. "To tell you the truth, Mollie, I wasn?t planning on an audience for this next bit." Then, with his mouth an inch from hers, he stopped. "No, wait." "I?ve been waiting four years..." "There?s one more thing I don?t understand. Who the devil?s Jerry? And what were you doing driving his Porsche?" She groaned and leaned against his shoulder. "Thanks a lot, Tom. You?ve just ruined the perfect moment by reminding me that I?ve got to confess to my publisher that his car is a wreck." "Your publisher? That is serious." Then he grinned. "Don?t worry about it, sweetheart. I?ll get it fixed, I?ll even tell him that it wasn?t your fault ? " "It wasn?t..." she began, but he pulled her close, stopped her protest with the most tender of kisses. And then, once he had her undivided attention, he murmured, "Now cue the violins." *** "Daddy?" Tom jerked awake, thought for a moment he?d been dreaming. Then he saw Harry standing beside the bed peering anxiously at him pre-dawn light. "What is it, Harry? Does your arm hurt?" "No. I just wanted to make sure you were still here." Not a dream. This small anxious little boy with his hair tousled from sleep, his arm in a sling, was his son, the child he thought forever lost.
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"I?m home, son," he said. "I?m not going anywhere without you ever again." He lifted the cover and Harry needed no encouragement to scramble into bed beside him, his anxious frown immediately transformed into a wide grin. "Do you know any stories?" "A few," he said, trying to think of something a four year old would enjoy. At his back Mollie moved closer to nuzzle his neck. "Once upon a time..." she prompted, propping herself up on her elbow, so that the three of them were all together, a real family. Tom doubted that this was what his publisher had in mind when he?d advised getting in touch with his feminine side. But it worked for him and his own grin must have set some kind of record. "Okay, here goes," he said. "Once upon a time..."
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The Runaway Mistress by Sandra Marton Rio is determined to get Esmé back into his bed ? but is that enough for either of them? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Rio de Santos did not believe in fate. It was true that life was like a game of cards. You were dealt a hand to play but, in the end, your skill was all that mattered. Rio was skillful. When he knew something was right for him, he went after it. It was the way he'd acquired the financial empire that spanned two continents, the ranch high in the hills outside Madrid, the penthouse in New York, the beautiful women who warmed his bed ? although acquiring them required no skill at all. They had come to him since he'd turned 16, more than a dozen years ago. He'd been working for a rancher in Barcelona. By day, he rode horses. By night, he rode the rancher's wife. "Gorgeous," she'd whispered, as she'd undressed him. Rio smiled as his silver Learjet swooped over the Texas landscape. The lady had taught him much. How to please a woman. How to make her want to please him. How to ease himself, gently, out of a relationship when it grew stale, as all relationships eventually did. His smile faded. Either she had not taught him enough, or he had not been as good a pupil as he'd imagined. Otherwise, why would Esmé Bennett have been the first woman to leave him before he'd tired of her? It wasn't ego that made this fact troubling. It wasn't that he wanted her back, either. Hadn't he known it was time to end things? Six months with one woman was three months too many. That had always been his rule; he still had no idea why he'd deviated from it but when he realized he had, he'd begun to wind things down. More flowers, more gifts; fewer phone calls, fewer intimate evenings. That had been the plan, anyway, but somehow, it had gone wrong. Rio folded his arms, his frown deepening to a glower. One weekend, when he was away, Esmé had vanished from his life. What sort of woman left a man without a word? No note. No phone call. Nothing but a recorded voice saying that her telephone number was no longer in service. Rio had gone to her apartment, in a part of Greenwich Village that was still a slum as far as he was concerned ? she'd refused to give it up even though he'd offered to move her closer to him, on the East Side ? Señor de Santos?" ? and found the place empty. He'd had to hire a private investigator; after all, she could have been ill, or hurt. It had been the right thing to do. The surprise was not that the P.I. found her but that he found her in Texas. Coolly urbane Esmé Bennett had left the city, had left him, for a ranch called Espada. As it happened, Rio knew of the place. It bred some of the finest horses in the world.
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A man who believed in fate would have found that interesting. Rio simply found it convenient. Among other things, he was a rancher. It was only logical he'd improve the bloodlines of his horses by adding an Espada-bred stallion or mare to his stock. "Sir? You said you'd want to take the controls when we neared Austin." Rio looked up. His pilot was standing beside him, a polite smile on his lips. "Sí." Rio cleared his throat and rose to his feet. "Thank you, Jack." He ducked his head as he went through the cockpit door, then buckled himself into the pilot's seat. He liked to fly, liked the combined sense of freedom and control it gave him. It was always a propitious way to start a business trip, and that was all this was. He'd do a little horse-trading with Jonas Baron and if, in the process, he saw Esmé, if he found himself alone with her, if he were still curious enough to give a damn?maybe then he'd ask her why she had left him. Not that he wanted her back. Hell, no, Rio thought grimly, and took the jet down toward Espada and whatever was in store for him there?had he been foolish enough to believe in fate. The silver jet swooped over Espada and touched down on the Barons' private airstrip. The landing was quiet and uneventful, but the black stallion in the small paddock nearest the stables snorted and danced with terror. Esmé, who'd been working with the horse most of the morning, barely had time to grab its bridle and hang on. "Dammit," she said, through her teeth. All this effort spent soothing the animal, talking to it, letting it grow accustomed to her, and now some idiot in a shiny toy had all but ruined her hard work. The same idiot she'd probably be stuck with for the weekend, somebody with too much money, too much machismo, and too many people to do his bidding. Someone like the man she'd left almost three months ago, but why ruin the day by thinking about him? The horse nickered softly and nuzzled Esmé's shoulder. She smiled, dug into the pocket of her jeans, and offered him a chocolate mint. "Okay," she said, "you're entitled to a treat." The stallion took it delicately from her outstretched palm. She looked past him, to where a plume of dust rose lazily against the cloudless sky, proof that the plane had landed. It had to be that Eastern big shot, flying in to buy a stallion. Or a mare. "He ain't said which," Jonas had told her, with a grin. "That's your job, missy. You got to help him figure it out." Help him, indeed. Esmé led the horse toward the stables. Men with enough money to own planes and buy Baron-bred horses didn't need to bother themselves with the down and dirty details of life. They could snap their fingers, bark out orders, behave as if they owned the planet and everything on it, the way Rio?
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"Dammit," Esmé muttered again. The horse shied and she patted its neck. "Easy, handsome. I'm talking to me, not you." Why was she wasting time thinking about Rio de Santos? He was out of her life and she was out of his. That was the good news. That she'd made the first move was even better. It had been the only possible move, to save even a vestige of her pride. Esmé slipped the bridle from the stallion, patted his muzzle and shut the gate to his stall. Why think about a man who wouldn't have spent a moment thinking about her? Oh, maybe he'd have wondered about her a little, but only because she'd put a dent in his precious ego. Except for that, he'd be glad she was gone. He'd been planning to end their affair. The signs had all been there to read. She blinked as she stepped out into the sunlight. She knew she should never have become involved with him in the first place. The fellow models she?d worked with had warned her. He was gorgeous, they said, and sexy, and incredible, but he went through women like candy. "He'll break your heart," one had said, but that wasn't true. Rio hadn't broken her heart; you had to love a man for that to happen, and she'd never loved Rio. Never. She was too wise for that, and if it still hurt to think about him, if she sometimes imagined how it would feel, if he came after her? "Hello, Esmé." The earth seemed to tilt. Her heart and soul knew that deep, lightly accented voice, but it wasn't possible. Rio couldn't be here. He couldn't be. "Are you afraid to look at me?" She was trembling, but she knew better than to let him see it. "That's stupid," she said, and managed to sound as if seeing him again wasn't sending her pulse into overdrive. "Why would I be afraid?" Esmé took a deep breath, fixed a polite expression to her face. Then she turned around and looked at the man who had been her lover until a few months ago, the man who had awakened her to passion. He was wrong. She wasn't afraid of seeing him again. She was terrified. Esmé wasn?t terrified of Rio, physically. As big as he was, as powerfully male, she knew he would never hurt her. But she hadn't expected the sight of him to hurt so much. She thought she'd forgotten the rugged masculinity that radiated from his long, leanly muscled body; forgotten the black hair that felt like silk; the piercing emerald eyes that could see into her soul; the straight nose and wide, mobile mouth capable of such drugging kisses when he made love to her.? No. It hadn't been love, it had been sex. That was all he wanted to give; all she wanted from him. Hadn't she told him so? Pleasure. That was what they'd both sought. No entanglements, nothing to distract either of them from their careers. It was just that, sometimes, lying in his arms after he'd spent himself in her, she'd felt lonely. Unbearably lonely. She'd almost admitted that to him one night. "Querida?" he'd whispered. "You are so quiet. Is something troubling you?"
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"No," she'd said, and that was good because, soon after, he'd gone to Madrid without her. He'd never left her before, not in the six months they'd been together, and when she added that to the other subtle changes in their relationship, she'd realized he was getting ready to end their affair. "Querida," he said now, in a way that made a mockery of the endearment, "I take it you're not pleased to see me." Esmé looked into Rio's eyes, saw the coldness in them and her heart hardened. He had been her lover. Now, he was a stranger. He had only come after her because she was the first woman who'd walked out on him. "What are you doing here, Rio?" A tight smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "As always, direct and to the point." "I would appreciate the same courtesy from you." "Of course." He looked around him with studied ease. "This is Espada, isn't it?" he said politely. "Yes." "Well, then, I've come to see Jonas Baron." "For what reason?" Rio folded his arms. "Are you his secretary?" "No." "Then it's none of your business." "It's very much my business," Esmé snapped. "I'm not a fool. I know why you're really here." A slow smile curved his mouth. "Do you," he said flatly. "Yes. I do. And I'm not interested." "In what?" His dark brows lifted. "Ah. You think I've come for you." She felt a flush tinge her cheeks. "I didn't say that." "You didn't have to. It's there, in those eyes of yours." She started to turn away and he reached out, caught her wrist. "I hate to disappoint you, querida, but I haven't come to take you back." The heat in her face burned like flame. "That's good, because I have no intention of going back." "Such self-assurance." His hand tightened on hers; he drew her closer. She could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the flicker of a muscle in his jaw. "Such righteous indignation, querida. As if you were the injured party, not I." "You? Injured?" She laughed. "It's your ego that's injured, Rio. Look, if it makes you feel better, you can tell people you left me."
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"Damn you!" His eyes burned with green fire. "Do you think I care what people think?" "Let go of me!" Her mouth thinned as she tried to twist free of his hand. "I left you because I was tired of you." "Liar." "I know you can't believe it but that's how it is. I never wanted to see you again. I don't want to see you now. Just ? just get back on that plane and ?" "Well, now, missy, what kind of hospitality is this?" Esmé swung around. Jonas Baron was strolling toward them, his bushy white eyebrows raised. "De Santos," he said, and held out his hand, "good to meet you." Rio let go of her wrist. "And you, sir." "I take it you and the little lady here are old friends." Jonas grinned. "Makes it even better that she's goin' to spend the weekend showin' you around." "No," Esmé said, "no!" "Yes," Rio said, and from the quick flash in his eyes, she knew there was no way out.? Esmé sat stiffly on her horse, her back as rigid as an iron rod. Rio, riding just behind her, wondered ? for probably the 1000th time ? why in hell he had come after her. What did it matter, who had left whom? It had been time, past time, to end their affair. And he was certainly not going to demand she tell him the reasons she'd left him. Did a man really want to hear a woman enumerate such things? Rio narrowed his eyes. The trail curved like a snake as it wound up into the trees; there was a long drop to the right but Esmé paid it no attention. She sat in the saddle as if she'd been born to it. His mouth twisted. This was the woman he'd met at a charity ball at the Plaza and dined with at the Four Seasons. He'd taken her to Monaco, where she'd chatted easily with royalty; he'd watched her charm officials at a Washington gala. He knew her to be elegant, beautiful, and sophisticated. Now, she was wearing a cotton shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed boots. She had answered all his questions about the Baron stock with intriguing familiarity while handling a horse the size of Texas with little more than soft words and softer touches ? and handling him with icy disdain. He felt as if she were two different women. How was that possible? More to the point, how could he have only known one? Rio's horse picked its way delicately across a cottonwood deadfall. Esmé had moved out far ahead, where the trail opened onto a flat, wide plateau. He urged his mount forward and caught up to her just as she drew back on the reins. "You wanted to see the mares." She spoke tonelessly, not looking at him but at the
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meadow at the foot of the plateau. "Well, there they are." Rio dragged his eyes from Esmé, followed her gaze. Horses grazed far below them, muzzles deep in the summer grass. The animals were delicate and beautiful, but not as beautiful as the woman who sat on her horse beside him. "They're all Arabians," she said. He smiled, knowing her polite statement meant she didn't trust him to know very much about horses. "Yes. I prefer them. That aura of fragility, belying an inbred strength and stamina, especially in the mares?I find it most appealing." Her eyes met his. A faint pink color rose in her cheeks. "Yes," she said, "it is. It's one of the characteristics the Baron line has built upon." "You aren't a Baron." "We're talking about horses." "How do you know the family?" "Didn't whoever you paid to find me give you a complete dossier?" "Such hostility, querida." "Such curiosity, Rio." "I simply find it odd you should go from modeling in New York to riding the range on Espada." Esmé sighed. "I grew up here." She flashed him a look filled with challenge. "My mother is the Barons' housekeeper." His elegant mistress, the housekeeper's daughter. It seemed so incongruous that Rio smiled. "I'm glad you find that amusing," she said coldly. "I don't. I find it interesting." "Going slumming is always interesting." He looked at her, his dark brows raised. "Have I ever so much as inferred I am a man who would do such a thing?" She flushed. He hadn't. She had no idea why she'd said it. It was only that he confused her. His horse whinnied, tossed its head. Rio leaned forward, stroked the arched neck and the mare responded as any female would to that gentle, yet possessive, touch. Their eyes met, and what she saw set her blood on fire, just as it had the first time. She looked away, dismounted, and looped the reins over a low-hanging branch. "There are 100 horses in that herd," she said briskly. Leather creaked behind her. "I can point out some of the ones Jonas would be willing to ?"
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"Esmé," Rio said huskily, and without thinking about the consequences, she turned and went into his arms. This was what Esmé had really feared. That Rio would kiss her? That she would respond. She didn't want to, but how could she resist him? It had been like this from the beginning. The cool, silken brush of his lips turning hot, then hotter still as the kiss deepened. The taste of him, a rich, clean sweetness, like cold winter days and hot summer nights blended into one. She heard herself whimper, heard Rio's answering groan. He swept his arms around her, drew her close. His heart pounded against hers; his body hardened and she felt her own softening in response, felt the flowering dampness between her thighs. "Querida," he whispered, and she rose to him, looped her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the kiss, to what she had dreamed of each night since she'd left him because yes, she dreamed of him, yes, she still wanted him, yes, she loved? Esmé stiffened and tried to tear her mouth from Rio's, but he wouldn't let her. "No," he said thickly, and kissed her again, framing her face, holding her sweetly captive. Boneless, she let herself melt into him one last time before she pulled away again. When he tried to stop her, she pressed her hands against his chest, turned her face to the side and, at last, he let her go. She was trembling. How could he still have this effect on her? She had left him; she had eliminated him from her life. He was bad for her, he was everything her mother had warned her about, probably what all mothers warned their daughters about, and yet, oh, and yet? "Why did you run away from me?" He reached for her again, his hands bracketing her shoulders, his eyes hot and dark. "I returned from Madrid, and you were gone. No note. No message. How could you do such a thing?" "It was ? it was time. To ? to end things. We'd both said ?" He kissed her before she could stop him, his mouth crushing hers, silencing the lie, because it was a lie; she couldn't deny it any longer, not to herself. "Don't," she whispered. She pulled back, clasped his wrists. "It's over. Just accept that, and go back to New York. We said ?" "What we said was that our relationship would end, when it was time. But that time hasn't come yet, querida. Surely, you know that now." "It wasn't a relationship," Esmé said, hating herself for the tremor she heard in her voice, the tears she felt stinging her eyes. "It was an affair." Rio smiled slightly. "Why are women so hung up on words?" "Women," she said bitterly. "Is that how you think of me, Señor de Santos? As one of your 'women??" "No, of course not. It was a figure of speech, querida." "And don't call me that! What is it, a ? a generic term, so you don't have to try to remember the name of the querida you're with?"
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"Esmé." Rio frowned, as if he were confronting a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing. "What is all this nonsense? Must we analyze everything? All that matters is that you still want me ?" "That I still want you?" "Sí." It was so obvious. Couldn't she see it? He smiled, put a finger under her chin. "What could be more important than that?" She swung at him. It was a fast, wild blow and he dodged it easily, but that didn't keep him from staring at her in disbelief. Esmé? His cool, sophisticated Esmé, balling up her fist and trying to sock him in the jaw? "Está un idiota cretino," she snapped, and her fury stunned him so completely that he didn't realize she'd cursed him in his own language until she'd stormed away, scrambled onto the back of her horse, and galloped out of sight. Esmé opened the screen door that led into the Baron kitchen and let it bang shut after her. Damn Rio for making her so angry! Who did he think he was, telling her that she still wanted him? She didn't. It was just that he'd always known how to kiss her so that she felt it, straight down to her toes. So that one kiss wasn't enough, any more than one touch, one feel of his hands on her skin was enough.? "I hate him," she said through her teeth. "Per Dios, Abel!" The Baron's housekeeper came bustling out of the pantry. "Do you want to take the door off its hinges? Then you will complain when I tell you I need one of your men to fix? Oh." Carmen stared at Esmé. "I thought you were Abel. The foreman. He is always slamming ?" "I know who Abel is, Mama," Esmé said dryly. She strode to the refrigerator, yanked the door open, then shut it so hard that it rattled. Carmen raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?" "Yes! I've been dealing with an idiot, a man who flew here to buy horses from Jonas." Esmé opened a cupboard door, peered inside, then slapped it shut. "With all the cooking and fussing and shopping you do, I'd have thought there'd be a bottle of water in this place." "I do my job," Carmen said calmly, "nothing more. As for water, we are not so fussy as city people. You know our water comes from the well." She opened the faucet, filled a glass, and handed it to her daughter. "Why are you so upset?" "I'm not upset," Esmé snapped, and downed the water in one long swallow. Droplets of it moistened her lips and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. "I'm tired, hot, and thirsty." "Tired, hot, and thirsty, sí." Carmen took the glass, rinsed it, and placed it in the drainer. "Tired ever since you returned here." "I have some kind of virus, that's all." "No virus lingers this long, chica." "Mama, please. I have things on my mind." "Upsetting things, and do not bother to tell me I'm wrong."
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"For God's sake, Mama?" "I do not like it when you take the Lord's name in vain, Esmerelda. And since when have you gone back to calling me 'Mama??" Esmé sighed deeply. "Look, let's start again, okay? I don't want us to quarrel." Her lips softened, curved into a smile. "Mama or Mother, I love you. You know that." Carmen sighed and held out her arms. Esmé went into them. "I only want the best for you," Carmen said softly. "I want you to have a better life than I had. Surely, you know that." "Yes, I do." "You are not a naïve girl from a village in Mexico, to be seduced by a man's lies. You are an educated young woman with a fine mind, and you would have a teaching certificate if you had not decided to drop out of school and take up modeling." Esmé stepped out of her mother's embrace. "Mama," she said quietly, "we've been through this. Teaching was your dream for me, not mine." "It is a profession. Modeling is not." "Teaching is fine but I wanted to travel, to see the world before I settle down. Modeling gives me that." "It can also give you trouble." Carmen huffed out a breath. "Men will prey on you, chica. Will you be strong enough to resist them?" Esmé knew she was coloring. She swung away from her mother's questioning eyes. "I'm not a fool, Mama. I know how to take care of myself." "You think you do. But if a man comes along with soft words and turns your blood to fire?" "You said it yourself, Mama. I'm not you. No man can ?" The screen door flew open. Both women swung toward it as Rio stepped into the room, his eyes dark with anger as they lit on Esmé. "There you are," he growled. "Did you really think you could get away from me so easily?" Carmen looked from the stranger's angry face to her daughter's pale one. All at once, she understood everything. Why Esmé had come back to Espada so suddenly. Why she'd spent the past several weeks in edgy silence. Why she was so upset today. This man, this dangerous-looking stranger with the angry eyes, was the reason. Her throat constricted. Foolish girl, she thought angrily. Foolish, foolish chica. She wanted to grab Esmé and shake her. Better still, she wanted to grab her and spirit her away?but that wasn't possible. Esmé was a woman, not a child.
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Besides, one glance at this man and she knew she would never be able to keep him from Esmé, if he was determined to find her. Still, a mother could protect her young as long as she was able. She stepped in front of her daughter, looked at the stranger, and spoke as calmly as possible. "I am Carmen Bennett." She saw the surprise register in his hard, handsome face. "Bennett?" His eyes flew past her to Esmé. "Are you Esmé's mother?" "I am Esmerelda's mother, sí. And you are??" "I am Rio de Santos, señora." Rio de Santos? Carmen thought, in surprise. A Spaniard, not a Mexican, from his looks, and perhaps that was not so surprising, now that she considered it. For who but an arrogant, hot-tempered Latin could have tamed her equally hot-tempered daughter? He smiled, and she saw the lazy charm of a tiger ready to be unleashed. "I am a guest of the Barons." He took her hand, brought it to his lips. Carmen told herself she was too old and too wise to be influenced by tigers. "Perdone, señor, but guests of the Baron family ?" "Perhaps I should have been more specific. I am not a guest, I am a client." "Sí. Of course. Nevertheless ?" Esmé stepped past Carmen. "Go away, Rio," she said coldly. Rio folded his arms over his chest. "Is that your solution to everything? To run?" "I'm not running. I'm simply asking you to leave." "No." "Coming after me was pointless. I'm not interested." "In what?" His smile was cool. "I don't recall making any offers." Esmé jerked up her chin. "Will you just ? just climb into that plane of yours and fly back to New York?" "I intend to. After things are settled." "Things are settled. I thought I made that very clear." "I thought so, too." His smile tilted. "Until a few minutes ago, on that mesa." "What mesa?" Carmen said suspiciously. "Esmerelda, what is he talking about?" "We ? we rode up to Superstition Butte." Esmé cleared her throat. "And ? and we had a discussion.?"
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Rio laughed. She looked at him, eyes snapping. Then she brushed past her mother, grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the door. "I'll be back, Mama." "When?" Carmen put her hand to her throat. "Esmé. Chica?. Don't do anything foolish." "I've already done as many foolish things as I ever intend to do," Esmé said, with a brittle laugh. "Don't worry, Mama. I'm done playing the fool." But as the screen door swung shut behind them, and she felt Rio's arm slide possessively around her waist, Esmé had the terrible feeling that her words were nothing but empty promises. Rio marched Esmé away from the house, his arm encircling her waist like a band of steel. "Let go of me," she demanded. Rio answered by tightening his hold. Esmé cursed and tried to break free but he was big and strong, and angry enough to be formidable. He had a hell of a lot of nerve! She was the one who had the right to be angry. He had followed her to Espada, made her look foolish in front of Jonas Baron, her employer, made her look even more foolish in front of her very own mother.? "Are you deaf?" she hissed furiously. "I told you to let go!" "When I'm done with you, chica," he said coldly. "Then, I will let you go." "Don't call me that! I am not a little girl." "Then stop behaving like one." "You can't do this!" "I already am." "Dammit, Rio ?" "You're repeating yourself. Besides, it is improper for a well-bred Spanish señorita to use vulgarities." "A well-bred?" Esmé laughed. "Don't delude yourself, señor. I'm not Spanish. My mother was born in Mexico. My father was born in the States. I am a mestizo, and proud of it. And even if I were Spanish, if I want to curse, I will." "Not when you are with me." "I'm not with you! I'm being dragged along by you, as if I were a ? a package. And I don't like it." He stopped and spun her toward him. She could see a muscle flexing in his jaw. The emerald eyes that could burn hot as flame were icy with anger. "Do you wish to draw everyone's attention to us?" Esmé slapped her hands on her hips. "Me, draw everyone's attention to us?"
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She tossed her head; her dark hair flew around her head like a raven's wings. Rio fought the sudden desire to sink his hands into that dark silk, cup her face, and kiss that sullen anger from her mouth. She was beautiful, yes, but she was behaving like a brat and he was tired of it. He was tired of chasing after her, too, from New York to Texas, from a windswept mesa to the Baron kitchen. If she had something to say to him, let her say it. He stepped closer to her. "I am pleased you find my comments amusing." He moved toward her again and saw the faintest flicker in her eyes. Good, he thought grimly. She was afraid of what he might do next. Let her be. Maybe then he'd be able to get her to tell him what in hell was going on, why she'd left him because yes, he wanted to know the reason. He was entitled to know it ? especially after the way she'd kissed him a little while ago. A woman who gave herself to a man in a kiss was not a woman who should be running away from him. "As for who is drawing attention to us ? if you would behave yourself." "You mean, if I would just let you order me around, don't you? Have me fall into step next to you? Or maybe walk two paces to the rear?" Rio's eyes narrowed. He reached out, grabbed her wrist, tugged her to within an inch of his body. "Lower your voice and walk beside me like a civilized woman." "I'm completely civilized." She poked a finger into his chest. "You're the one who's behaving like a savage!" He looked at her finger, then at her. "Do not poke at me," he said quietly.
"How about you not telling me what to do?" "Esmé. I am warning you ?" "And I am warning you, Rio. Don't you dare ?" Her angry protest ended in a shriek as Rio picked her up, dumped her over his shoulder like a sack of laundry, and strode toward the stable. Esmé couldn't believe Rio was doing this, that he'd grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched away with her. "Are you crazy? Put me down!" He answered by shifting her weight and clamping his arm more tightly behind her knees. "Put ? me ? down!" Esmé pounded her fists against his back. "Put ? me ?" "Uh, mister? You need some help here?" Esmé saw a pair of familiar-looking, beaten-up boots come into view. "Who is that? Abel? Is it you? Abel, tell this idiot to put me down!" "No," Rio said politely, "thank you, señor, I am doing just fine."
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"He's not doing fine! He's ? he's kidnapping me!" "Don't look like much of a kidnap to me," Abel said, after a moment that Esmé suspected had probably included a wink of the eye from one man to the other. "The señorita seems to have had a bit too much sun." The stable doors loomed ahead. Rio shouldered them open; Abel reached out a hand and held them ajar. "She'll be all right as soon as I get her into the shade." "I will not be all right! I am all right! Abel? If you don't tell this ? this idiot to put me down ?" "Thank you for your assistance, Señor Abel." "Think nothin' of it, señor." The foreman stepped back. The doors swung shut and Esmé and Rio were alone in the shadowed, silent stable. Rio dumped Esmé on her feet. She spun toward the door but he grabbed her, shoved her back until her shoulder blades hit the wall, and planted a spread hand on either side of her. He looked at her and frowned. "You are pale," he said. She probably was. Hanging upside down had down something to her stomach. She took a couple of deep breaths before she answered him. "Let's not waste time on solicitude, okay? What do you want, Rio? Why did you cart me around like a ? a sack of feed?" "I carted you around, as you so charmingly put it, because there was no other way to gain your attention." Esmé slapped her hands on her hips and blew a dangling strand of dark hair off her forehead. "Yes, well, you've certainly gained my attention, and the attention of every other human being on this ranch! Maybe it doesn't bother you that I'll be the topic of conversation in the bunkhouse for the next umpteen evenings, but it sure as hell bothers me!" "I suppose that is true." Rio's mouth twitched. "It will make for some talk among the men." "Damned right. It's hard enough to get respect from a bunch of grungy cowboys ?" "Any man who shows you a lack of respect will have to answer to me," Rio said, his voice suddenly cold and hard. "I didn't mean respect as a woman, I meant respect as a horse trainer." A horse trainer. His elegant Esmé. Rio couldn't help but smile. "What's so funny?" Her eyes narrowed. "I am an excellent trainer. Ask Jonas, if you don't believe me." "Oh, I believe you. It is only that I would not have thought a woman whose lovely face is on magazine covers would prefer to train horses." "That just shows how little you know me," Esmé said. "I never intended to model forever. I just ? I wanted something different for a while, that?s all."
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"And now you will train horses?" She nodded, and Rio smiled again. "You?re right, querida. I did not know this other side of the woman who is my lover." Color flooded her face. "I am not your lover. Not anymore." Rio lifted a hand to her face. She would have jerked away from his touch but he clasped her chin, traced the arc of her cheekbone with his thumb. It wasn't fair that such a simple gesture should still make her catch her breath. "Don't ? don't do that," she said quickly. "Do what?" A muscle flickered in his jaw. He stepped closer, bent his head, nuzzled the damp strands of hair from her temple. "Do what, querida?" he whispered, and took her mouth with his. Rio's mouth closed over Esmé's. For a heartbeat, she gave herself up to the heat and excitement of the kiss, but this was exactly why she'd left him, because he'd still had this power over her, even though he'd been getting ready to leave her. Where was her pride? Her self-respect? She twisted her face away from his. "Stop it," she said, in a shaky whisper. He clasped her head and turned her face to his. His eyes were hot coals, his mouth a thin line of sensuality. He looked as he always did when he wanted her, and just seeing that need in his face had always made every pleasure point in her body throb in response. From the start, this was how it had been between them. All Rio had to do was look at her this way, no matter where they were, and she would feel the pull of his desire deep inside. She had never been able to resist him, never wanted to resist. Being in Rio's arms, in his bed, made her feel alive. That was what was so dangerous about him, that he could do this to her, even now, when she knew she didn't want to be just another woman, passing through his life.? Esmé gasped for breath, wrenched free, and jammed her hands against his chest. "I don't want you to kiss me," she said. "Not anymore." A quick smile flashed across his handsome face. "Liar," he said softly. He bent his head, put his mouth to her throat. Heat sizzled through her again. He whispered her name and bent her back over his arm, his teeth nipping lightly at her flesh, and she moaned, clasped his head, arched back so he could reach her breasts. Oh, it was wonderful to be in his arms again, to feel his hard body against hers. All these weeks, without his touch, without his kisses, without him. She'd been so lonely. How many times had she awakened in the night, her body on fire for his possession? Rio, she thought, Rio, I love you.? The shock of it swept through her like a tidal wave. No. She didn't love this man. She couldn't. She wouldn't. She was a toy to him. A conquest. He only wanted her because she'd had the courage to do what no other woman had done ? she?d left him. The last thing she would do was give him that power over her heart again.
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"No!" she cried, against his mouth, and fought him, really fought him, the arms that held her, the kisses that drugged her, until, finally, he lifted his head and stared at her through eyes blurred with passion. "Esmé?" he said thickly. "Querida? What is wrong?" "You," she said, her voice trembling. "You're what's wrong. Do you really think you can ? you can turn up in my life and ? and manhandle me?" "Manhandle?" Rio's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you call it when I take you in my arms to make love?" "It isn't love. It's ? it's you trying to seduce me." "I see." His mouth twisted, as if the words he spoke tasted bitter. "I manhandle you, and I seduce you. Is that what you think?" Esmé wrapped her arms around herself. The stable was filled with the heat of the horses, and having Rio's arms around her had always been more than enough to ward off any chill before. But now, she was cold, icy cold, with the realization that she loved a man who could never love her. "Yes," she said, and looked straight into his eyes. "I do. That's why I left you, Rio. I was bored. I admit, it was fun and exciting at first, that whole Latin lover thing, but after a few months, it ? it grew old. I knew it was time for a change, and ?" She gasped as he grabbed her wrist, brought her arm up between them. "Keep away from me," he said, his voice an icy whisper. "Do you understand, Esmé? Keep away from me, for the balance of the time I am here, or I will not be responsible for what I do." He flung her from him and strode from the stable. Esmé's arms ached. She had mucked out the stalls and forked in fresh straw bedding for the horses she and Rio had ridden, then started brushing the other horses in their stalls. One of the hands wandered in while she was working, watched for a while, then offered to take over. "Thank you," she'd replied politely, "but I'm perfectly capable of doing the job." The hand ? a new one, and so young she doubted he had to shave more than once a week ? had cleared his throat. "Yes'm. I know you can. I just thought ?" "Don't think," she'd snapped. "It isn't what you're paid to do." Just remembering how she'd spoken to the boy made her cringe. "I'm sorry," she'd said quickly, and the boy had said that was okay, she didn't have to apologize, but it was a lie. She wished she could go back in time and snip out her tongue, rather than say anything so mean to the kid. And it was all Rio's fault. It had been difficult enough, gaining the respect of a bunch of cowboys, especially after half of them had seen her face in magazines, advertising everything from lipstick to automobiles. But she'd done it, showing them what Jonas had remembered, that she had a natural touch with horses.
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Rio had ruined it. She'd have to work twice as hard now to erase what at least some of them had seen ? Rio, carrying her off like a prize.? Carrying her here, into the quiet shadows, where he'd have made love to her, endless love, where he'd have buried himself deep within her, rocked her and rocked her until she cried out his name? The horse she was grooming whinnied its displeasure. She'd stopped brushing him; her hand lay still against his withers. Esmé blinked and looked into the big, dark eyes. More, those eyes seemed to be saying, it felt so good to be stroked.? "Stop it," she said. The animal snorted and Esmé made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sorry, sweetheart. I was scolding myself, not you." She rubbed the velvet muzzle, left the stall and let herself out of the barn, out into the afternoon. The hot afternoon? The world spun; the path dipped under her feet. "Hey," a voice said, and a pair of arms went around her. Not Rio's; even as everything grayed, she knew it wasn't he who'd caught her. "Miz Bennett? You okay?" Esmé's vision cleared. It was the young ranch hand who'd caught her before she could faint. He was looking at her as if she might break apart. "I'm fine." Her voice was weak; she could tell from the look on the boy's face that her words didn't reassure him any more than they reassured her. "Really," she said, and managed a quick smile. "I'm all right." The boy frowned, let go of her, but kept a hand out as if she might sink to the ground. "You sure?" She nodded. A mistake, because the simple action made her stomach rise into her throat. "Yes," she said, and swallowed hard. "The sun ?" She gestured at the blue, hot sky and bright yellow disk blazing against it. The kid nodded. "Yeah. It can really get to you, if you ain't used to it." "I'm used to it," Esmé said. "I grew up here. Why is it everyone thinks they know all there is to know about me, when actually?" The boy was looking at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had, she thought. "Thank you," she said briskly, and headed for the house before the world turned gray again, which was exactly what it was threatening to do. "Esmerelda! Are you all right?" Carmen was standing in the doorway, holding open the screen door. Esmé brushed past her and headed for the sink. "Oh, hell," she murmured, as she opened the cold-water tap. "I suppose everyone on the ranch saw me trip over my own feet!"
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"Here, chica." Carmen bustled to the sink, snatched up a dish towel and soaked it in the spill of icy water. "Put this on your forehead and sit down." "I'm fine, Mama." "Good. Now, sit down." "Honestly, I'm okay." "Must you argue about everything?" Carmen took her daughter's arm, led her to the big oak table, gently pushed her into a chair. "Just sit here and let me take care of you." Esmé sighed. The truth was, her knees still felt as if they were made of noodles and there were little black dots dancing in front of her eyes. "Thank you." Carmen clucked her tongue. "And it is not necessary for a daughter to thank her mother. Here. Drink this." Esmé took the glass from her hand. "Orange juice?" "Sí. With sugar added, the way you liked it when you were small." "The way you wouldn't let me drink it," Esmé said, with a little smile. She sipped the cold, sweet liquid, felt it slide down her throat, where it seemed to collect in a blob too large to deal with. She swallowed very carefully, and put the glass down. "Too much sugar?" "No. I just? It's the sun, Mama. I feel a little nauseous." "Ah. Well, take tiny sips, chica. Have you eaten anything today? I know you didn't touch your breakfast? What is it?" Esmé could feel the sweat on her forehead turning to icy beads. "Please. Don't talk about breakfast." Carmen turned and looked at her daughter. She drew out a chair and sat down across from her. "Did you feel sick then, too?" she asked softly. "This morning, I mean?" Esmé nodded. "A little. Actually, I've been feeling queasy lately." She brought the glass to her lips and took a cautious drink. "I guess that cowboy was right." "Which cowboy?" "The kid who caught me before I could pass out." She sighed and smiled at her mother over the rim of her glass. "He said it took time to get used to the heat and I said I didn't have to get used to it, that I'd grown up here. But I've been away for so long.?" "Long enough to have involved yourself with a man like Rio de Santos." Esmé looked up. Her mother's expression was unreadable, but her black eyes were flashing. "Mama," she said carefully, "I don't want to discuss Rio de Santos."
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"No. I'm sure you do not." Carmen got to her feet, took a cloth from the sink and began briskly wiping down the countertop. "What girl would wish to discuss her lover with her mother?" "I'm not a girl. And Rio's not my lover." "Not anymore, but surely, he was." "That's the operative word, Mama. Was. Rio isn't anything to me, not anymore." "No?" Carmen tossed the cloth into the sink and put her fists on her hips. "Then, what is he doing here, huh?" "He came to buy horses." Carmen barked out a laugh. "Horses? You cannot be so blind, chica. He came here for you." "If he did, he's wasting his time." Esmé pushed back her chair and stood up. "I don't want him." "A woman does not turn her back on a man like that. He is the kind who leaves a woman to weep into her pillow, alone." "That's so old-fashioned it makes me?sick," Esmé groaned, and ran for the bathroom. Carmen gripped the edge of the sink. She closed her eyes, as if in supplication, though she feared her prayer was already too late. Night had fallen on Espada. Heat lightning lit the sky as thunder mumbled threateningly from the hills. Esmé sat before the TV set in her small apartment behind the tack room, just off the stable, and clicked mindlessly through the channels. "The apartment ain't much," Jonas had said when he'd hired her, "but you can have it, if you want." She'd wanted. Otherwise, she'd have had to share her mother's quarters and that would have meant that Carmen would have known that sometimes she spent half the night staring sightlessly at the television. Lightning rent the sky; thunder pealed again, faster and closer than before. The storm was coming nearer. Maybe it would bring an end to the relentless heat. Maybe then, she'd be able to sleep. Esmé sighed, clicked onto an ancient I Love Lucy rerun and sat back on the sofa. She smiled slightly; she'd seen this episode before. Lucy and Ethel were struggling to keep pace with a conveyer belt of chocolate candies. Just the sight of Lucy downing all that chocolate made Esmé feel queasy. She clicked the set off. Except for the growl of thunder, Espada was still. She dropped the remote on the coffee table and got to her feet. She was wearing an oversize T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties, her favorite bedtime attire now that she wasn't sleeping with ? now that she was here, on the ranch. The cotton was the coolest thing to wear and she didn't have to worry about looking sexy enough to appeal to ? to anyone. She realized now that she'd made a conscious effort to do that, toward the end of things, once she'd become aware of how much longer Rio had been with her than he'd been with any other woman. "Must be something special about you," one of the girls she worked with had teased.
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Esmé had never thought about how long their affair would last before her colleague?s words. After that, it was all she could think of, and after a while, when Rio had started breaking an occasional date, when she'd catch him watching her with a funny look on his face, she'd upped what she thought of as the glamour quotient. More silk nightgowns, new perfume? What an idiot she'd been! She went into the tiny kitchen, luxuriated in the blast of icy air as she opened the freezer compartment and dumped a handful of ice cubes into a glass. Her mother was right, she thought, as she filled the glass with water. Espada's well water was cool and delicious. It was just that she'd grown accustomed to drinking bottled water in New York. She'd grown accustomed to lots of things while living in the city. The noise, for instance. When she'd first returned to Espada, she'd had difficulty sleeping without an accompanying backdrop of traffic sounds. Mostly, she'd had trouble sleeping without Rio. Without his arm around her; without her head on his shoulder. Without him waking her in the night to kiss and caress her before it was time to leave her in the morning. He'd wanted to move her to an apartment nearer to his, but she'd refused. "I pay my own rent," she'd said. It was true, she'd wanted to hang on to her independence?but after a while, if he'd asked her to move in with him, not to move in near him, she'd have done it in a heartbeat. The truth, the naked truth, was that she'd wanted him to love her, and he didn't. He wouldn't. He'd been up-front about that from the beginning. The rain finally arrived, pounding against the tin roof like a tap dancer gone crazy. Lightning flashed through the kitchen; thunder rolled overhead. The lights blinked once, twice, then went out. Esmé jumped, then gave a shaky laugh. A storm was only a storm. There was nothing to be afraid of.? The door flew open. She screamed, swung toward it and saw a figure silhouetted against the lightning-torn sky. It was Rio. Rio, soaked to the skin, looking enraged and dangerous and gorgeous enough to stop her heart. "Damn you, Esmerelda," he growled, and he stepped inside, slammed the door shut, and pulled her into his arms. The storm raging outside, raw and uncontrolled, was reflected in Rio's eyes. He had always been a passionate lover. Still, Esmé had sensed that he'd withheld a part of himself, never lost control, and that was good. It helped her keep her own emotions leashed. Sometimes when they'd made love, she'd felt as if she were trembling on the brink of eternity, that one more touch, one more kiss, would turn her inside out. She'd known better than to let that happen?but now, as he gathered her in his arms, she knew that he was going to demand everything, offer everything.? And she would let it happen. Thunder boomed over Espada as Rio's arms closed, hard, around her. His eyes filled with passion. She could smell desire on him, a hot, clean, masculine scent that sent her pulse rocketing. "Esmé," he said, and he put his hand in the neckline of her shirt, closed it into a fist, and ripped the cotton fabric from her throat to the hem. His gaze dropped to her naked breasts and she felt her nipples lift and swell in response.
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"Rio," she whispered, and he caught her mouth with his, took it with such need that she swayed toward him. He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs stroking the crests. "Tell me that you want me," he said thickly, "that you want this." She rose toward him, eyes closed, lips parted, her heart thundering in her ears. "Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes.?" Rio dropped his hands to her hips, yanked down her panties, tore them free of her ankles. A jagged streak of lightning splattered the room with light and she saw his face, exulted in what she saw there, in what she was doing to him. She reached for his belt but her fingers wouldn't obey quickly enough and he brushed her hands aside, tore his soaked T-shirt over his head, undid his belt, stripped away his clothes until he was as naked as she. Esmé's breath caught. He was as beautiful as she'd remembered, his body muscled and magnificently male. "Rio," she whispered, and touched him. He groaned when her hand closed around him, said something so explicitly sexual in Spanish that her knees almost buckled. "Is that what you want, querida?" he growled. "Is it what you want me to do?" "Yes," she said, "please, yes?" Rio's fingers wound through hers. He lifted her hands, pinned her to the wall with his weight, her arms outstretched to her sides as he bent his head and kissed her, his mouth devouring hers, his teeth nipping at her flesh, giving her pain, giving her pleasure, giving her what she'd longed for, all these lonely weeks. Esmé whimpered, moved against him, lifted her hips, ground her pelvis against the hard ridge of his desire. Rio groaned. She was killing him but if he had to die, he would die willingly, so long as it were like this. This was the woman he'd never quite been able to touch, the one he'd sensed was hidden inside the cool, elegant outer shell. She'd always been responsive and passionate. Still, he'd had the feeling she'd held back some part of herself, that she'd never quite let him inside her soul. Tonight, he knew she was holding nothing back. And neither would he. He lifted her in his arms, she wrapped her legs around his hips, and he entered her on one long, hard, exquisite thrust. She cried out his name and he kissed her mouth while he took her closer to the edge of the chasm that loomed before them. "You are mine," he said fiercely. "Do you hear me, querida? You are mine!" "Yes," she said brokenly, "yes, yes.?" He moved, moved again, and she gave a high, shrill cry and shattered in his arms.
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"Rio," she sobbed, and he groaned, buried his face against her throat, and emptied himself into her sweet, silken warmth. The sound of thunder receded; lightning painted a distant glow on the horizon. The hall lamp flickered, once, twice, then came on. Esmé, still locked in Rio's arms, sighed with contentment. Her head fell forward, onto his shoulder. She knew she ought to ease herself from his embrace, that he had to be as drained as she was, but she didn?t want to end this moment. She had never felt so close to him before, or so filled with happiness. "Querida." His breath whispered against her ear. "Querida, forgive me. I should have taken you slowly, but I wanted you so badly.?" "Don't apologize," she said softly. "It was the same for me." His arms tightened around her. "Was it?" She nodded. "Yes." It was a dangerous admission, one that left her vulnerable to him, but what was the sense in pretending, after what had just happened? He kissed her with almost unbearable tenderness. Slowly, he let her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor. "I missed this," he said. This, Esmé thought. He had missed this, not her. Suddenly, she was aware of how wanton she must look, of how she'd behaved. She drew back a little, crossed her arms over her breasts. "Rio." She swallowed dryly. "I think ? I think you should leave.?" "Don't hide yourself from me," he said softly. He clasped her wrists and gently brought her arms to her sides. "You are so beautiful, Esmé. I could never tire of looking at you." Color flooded her face. She wanted to tell him she never tired of looking at him, either, but then she might tell him too many things, none of which he wanted to hear. "Querida. Why did you leave me?" Because I fell in love with you, she thought, but she knew better than to say it. "I almost went crazy when you disappeared. I thought something had happened to you, that you were ill.?" "I'm sorry. I should have left a note." "You should not have left me at all," he said roughly. He swept her into his arms and carried her down the hall to the bedroom. "Never mind all that. I have found you again. That's what matters." Gently, he lowered her to the bed. "But I want you to know that I understand." She looked up. His eyes were dark and unreadable as he came down on the bed beside her. "You do?" "You felt you were losing your freedom, querida."He took her in his arms, held her close and kissed her. "It was the same for me."
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God, her heart was going to break. Silly, she told herself, she was being so silly. Rio had simply confirmed her suspicions. He'd been getting ready to end their affair. "Am I right, Esmé?" "Yes," she said, forcing the word past the lump in her throat. "But we were both wrong." He kissed her, his tongue stroking gently against hers. "After you left, I realized I was wrong, that we were not ready to end this thing between us." He smiled. "And now I am sure that you know it, too." Esmé felt torn between laughter and tears. She'd run away because that had seemed easier than having Rio walk out of her life, but leaving him had only sparked his desire for her. She knew it was time to tell him the truth, not that she loved him ? never that ? but that he was wrong, that she wanted to end their affair.? Rio kissed her, bent his dark head to her breasts. She felt the quickening of not just her body but of her heart as he made love to her with such sweet tenderness that, at the end, she could do nothing but weep. Dawn was just painting the sky when Rio awakened. Esmé lay in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart. He took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. She sighed, murmured something in her sleep, and snuggled closer. Rio glanced out the window. The sun would show itself soon, as it began its rise over the hills that rimmed Espada. People would be up and about. He knew it was time to get up, get dressed, and make his way back to his guest rooms in the main house. That was what his mind told him. His heart told him something else, that what he really wanted was to make love to the woman in his arms and then go out the door with her so that everyone on the ranch, everyone in the world knew that she belonged to him.? Rio frowned. Carefully, he eased his arm out from beneath Esmé's head, sat up, and swung his legs to the floor. Where had that idiotic thought come from? She didn't "belong" to him. He didn't "belong" to her. He didn't like that kind of thinking. Neither did she. That was why she'd left him, because she'd realized, the same as he, that their relationship had become too confining. She had agreed to leave Espada and return to New York with him. She would live with him ? temporarily, of course, until she found another apartment. And when their affair eventually ended, it would do so civilly. It was a sensible plan. Naked, Rio padded down the hall to the front door. His clothes, and Esmé's, were strewn everywhere. He bent down, picked up her torn T-shirt and brought it to his face. The soft cotton bore the scent of something light and floral and feminine. Her scent. Had he really ripped the shirt off her last night? Had he taken her against the wall with no preliminaries? He had done such things before with women; swift, hot sex could be incredibly arousing, but what he'd done last night was different. He hadn't planned any of it, hadn't even imagined it. One moment, he'd been pacing his room, his thoughts a blur, and the next he'd been striding through the pouring rain, straight to her door, ready to break it down if she didn't let him in.
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What had become of all his control? Rio put Esmé's shirt on a chair, collected his own clothing, and dressed. Then he reached for the doorknob.? No. He had to see her one last time. He made his way to the bedroom, paused just outside the door. She was still asleep. Well, he wouldn't wake her. He'd only go quietly to the bed, press a kiss to her shoulder. Or maybe he'd draw down the sheet, just so he could see her. Maybe he'd take her in his arms, kiss her until she awoke, until her lips parted and clung to his, and then he'd make love to her again, make love to her until she admitted she was his, only his, that she would never belong to another man.? He took a step back. Idiotic thoughts, again. What was wrong with him? He liked his life just as it was. He was free; he could do what he pleased, when he pleased. Oh, someday, yes, that would change. He would grow older, know it was time to settle down, choose a wife who would be easy to deal with, who would be obedient and respectful, who would never even think of striking him in anger.? Who would never let him see the depth of her passion for him. He turned away, hurried to the front door and stepped out into the early morning. Something was happening to him, but what? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him. Esmé opened her eyes when she heard the front door close. It was safe. Rio was gone. She wasn?t ready to face him this morning. He'd always been a wonderful lover, but the past hours had left her feeling stripped of all defenses. How many times had she awakened to his caresses? Sometimes, she imagined she was dreaming about him, only to open her eyes and find herself in his arms, find him touching her and kissing her, bringing her to climax again and again with his body, his hands, his mouth.? Esmé rolled onto her belly, pressed her face into the pillow that still bore traces of his masculine scent. After the last time they'd made love, he'd told her he wanted her ready to leave Espada by evening. "I can't," she'd said, and she'd felt him stiffen. "What do you mean, you can't?" His voice had been edged with anger. "This thing between us ?" "Dammit," she'd said, before she could stop herself, "don't call it that!" "Call it what you will, querida. You are coming with me to New York." "It isn't that easy. I have a job here." "Jonas will just have to replace you." "Thank you." She'd pushed free of his arms and turned away from him. "It's lovely to know you think I'm so easily replaced." Rio had laughed as he rolled her onto her back. "If you were, would I be here?"
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It wasn't exactly the answer she'd longed for but it was more than she'd ever hoped to get from him. Slowly, she relaxed in his arms. "And then there's my apartment." He nuzzled the sheet down, exposing her breasts. "What about it?" "I don't have one. I gave it up when ?" Her breath caught. "Don't do that." "Why not?" "Because ? because I can't think. I was trying to tell you that I have no place to live.?" "You will move in with me." At first, she'd thought she'd misunderstood him. Hadn't they just discussed the importance of not feeling trapped? But Rio had flashed a smile so smug and arrogant she knew she'd heard him correctly. "That's impossible," she'd said. "Nothing is impossible, querida," he'd said softly, and then he'd kissed her, moved against her, and she'd been lost to everything but him. But he was wrong. Some things were impossible, and living with him certainly topped the list. Did he really think he could arrange everything to suit himself? Esmé flung back the sheet and sat up. It was a big mistake. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Nausea roiled through her. She reached the bathroom just in time. This was becoming ridiculous. She was always tired, and she was starting to hate the mornings because almost each one began this same way.? The sheer impossibility of the thought took her breath away. Cautiously, she put her hand over her belly. No. It was the same, still flat, as it had always been. She brushed her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, scrambled into her robe, and went to the little desk in the kitchen. It wasn't really worth checking but she'd check, anyway. Her appointment book was in the top drawer. She took it out, thumbed back a few months. There was a little red check on the 10th of April, another on the 10th of May. But where was the check for June, or July? "Esmé?" And August. What about August? The 10th had come and gone, and the 11th? "Esmerelda? Chica, are you there?" She turned to the door, opened it. The sun was blinding; she could feel its heat on her face but somehow she felt cold. Icy cold, straight down into her bones. "Esmerelda?" Carmen stared at her white face. "What is it?" "Mama," Esmé whispered. "Oh, Mama, I think I'm pregnant."
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Carmen staggered as if she'd been struck. This was what she'd feared, what she'd refused to acknowledge. "No," she said, "no, it cannot be." "I - I was with him only twice," Esmé whispered, "before I went on the pill.?" "All it takes is once," Carmen said coldly. "Is it this man, this Spaniard, who did this to you?" "It isn't Rio's fault." It wasn't. They'd talked about contraception, discussed if she wanted to take care of it or if she wanted him to use condoms. "I'm on the pill," she had told him, because she hadn't wanted anything to separate her from Rio's possession, but she'd lied - she'd had to go out and get a prescription. There'd been no reason for her to have been taking the pill. She'd only slept with a couple of men in her life, and that was long before she met Rio. Her tears came hotter and faster. Carmen held out her arms. Esmé went into them, sobbing. "Are you certain, chica?" "I haven't had a period in three months. And I've been feeling sick in the mornings, and tired?" "Ay." Carmen sighed. "I noticed. Still, until you take a test?" She took a tissue from the pocket of her apron and wiped Esmé's streaming eyes. "Come," she said brusquely. "We will drive to town and purchase a testing kit. Then we will know what we must do." An hour later, the two women sat in Esmé's kitchen. Her pregnancy had been confirmed. Esmé knew it was crazy but somehow, she felt calmer. Knowing the truth had done that because it was better to face facts than supposition. Carmen, on the other hand, was frantic. "How could you do something so foolish, Esmerelda?" "I didn't do it deliberately," Esmé said wearily. "I told you. It just happened." "It just happened," Carmen scoffed. "Well, now something else must happen. Either you will not have this baby, or you will give it up after it is born." "No," Esmé said sharply. "I won't do either of those things." "Then you will go to your lover and demand he marry you." Esmé gave a bitter laugh. "That's out of the question." "I will speak to him, then. I will tell him that he must face his responsibilities.?" "No!" Esmé leaped to her feet. "You don't understand, Mama. I - I love Rio." "Then, what is the problem, chica?" Carmen's expression softened. "Many babies are born before a marriage is nine months old. It is not right, but -" "I love him. But he doesn't love me."
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"If he is a decent man, he will do what he must. He will marry you, or at least he will agree to support you and the child." "He is decent. And he probably would offer to do the right thing." Esmé's voice broke. "But I don't want to trap him into a marriage he doesn't want, or a relationship that will stretch on endlessly into the future. I love him too much to force him into anything like that." Carmen's mouth thinned. "You are a fool, Esmerelda. How will you manage on your own? How will you support your baby?" "I'll stay on here at Espada, training horses. Or I'll go back to school and get that degree you want me to have. I'll find a way." "You will destroy your life!" "Did having me destroy yours?" "I was uneducated. I knew I could only be a maid or a cook. Besides, I married the man who created you." "And he began to cheat on you, and left you, as soon as I was born. Did that kind of marriage change anything for either you or me, Mama?" Carmen sighed. "No," she admitted, after a minute. "It did not." Esmé smiled, despite the tears that glittered in her eyes. "I'll be fine," she said softly. "You just wait and see." And she would be, she thought an hour later, after she'd put on her makeup, dressed, and turned herself back into cool, sophisticated Esmé Bennett of Manhattan. She'd be fine?and she would have Rio's child to love. That wasn't so bad, when she thought about it. All she had to do now was face Rio, and tell him that she had changed her mind about being his mistress. Esmé looked for Rio in the stables, but he wasn't there. She headed up to the house, let herself in through the always-unlocked front door so that she could avoid seeing her mother again, and met Jonas, at the top of the stairs. "Lookin' for the señor?" he said, and grinned. "Yes. Yes, I am." "Well, he's in the guest suite, checkin' out the paperwork on the fillies he bought." Jonas winked. "Man sure does have a good eye, when it comes to the ladies?which reminds me, missy. Rio says you'll be leavin' us. Got to tell you, I'm sorry to see you go. You got a fine way with horses." "Rio spoke too soon," Esmé said quickly. "I'm not going anywhere." "Oh?" Jonas jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "The señor might not approve." "The señor doesn't run my life," she replied, and knocked on Rio's door. He opened it, stared at her, then smiled and reached for her hand. "Querida," he said, and drew her inside. "Rio. I - I have to talk to -"
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Rio shut the door, gathered her into his arms and kissed her. For a moment, she gave herself up to the kiss. Then she put her hands against his chest and pulled away. He looked at her and frowned. "Esmé? What is wrong?" "I have something to tell you." She stepped out of his encircling arms and hoped he couldn't see the frantic beat of her pulse in her throat. She'd been good at modeling; photographers loved what they called her cool look. It was the look she deliberately set her features to now. "Do you?" His voice had an edge to it; she could only imagine how he would sound after she told him she wasn't returning to New York as his mistress. "Tell me, then, querida. Don't keep us both in suspense." She took a deep breath. "I've changed my mind. About going back with you to New York." A muscle knotted in his cheek. " Well, I can accept that. You need a few more days here. You don't want to leave Jonas, as you say, in the lurch." "No." Her hands were trembling. She dug them deep into the pockets of her gray silk trousers. "No, you don't understand. I'm not going back to New York, Rio. I'm not going to - to pick up where we left off." Rio said nothing. Esmé could hear the beat of her own heart, the soft rush of her own breath. "I see," he said, at last. "And the reason for this decision is??" "I don't -" God, she thought, God, please get me through this. "I don't see any point to it." She smiled, though it felt as if her lips were sticking to her teeth. "I admit that last night was - it was exciting, but that's only because we'd been apart for a while. We both know that - that sooner or later, we'll be back where we were before I left, with - with our affair over and both of us wishing to be free?" "Free," he said, very softly. "That is what you wish? To be free of me?" Tears rose in her eyes. She damned herself silently for not being able to control her emotions but with luck, he wouldn't notice. He was so angry, his face so pale beneath its usual golden tan, that she didn't think he'd notice anything but the fact that his ego had been hammered again. "Yes." She lifted her chin. "That's right, and it's better if we end things now, as friends, than if we wait a few weeks, or even a few months, and -" "As I have said before, amada, you are a bad liar," Rio growled, and hauled her into his arms. Esmé told herself not to kiss Rio back, but her head wasn't paying attention to her heart. She not only kissed him, she clung to him, opened her mouth to him, twisted her fingers in his shirt while tears ran down her cheeks. After a long time, Rio drew back and clasped her shoulders. "You don't want to leave me," he said softly. "Yes. I do. I?" He kissed her again and again, and she moaned softly against his mouth. "Tell me the truth, amada. You don't want to leave me, do you?" How could she go on lying? "No," she said, "no, oh no, I don't. I ? I ?"
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Rio took her face in his hands. "What, querida? Say the words." She shook her head. She had some pride left. Besides, she had to leave him, before her secret became visible. "Very well." He smiled. "I will say them first." It was a brave start and a brave smile, but he could feel himself starting to shake, which was ridiculous. He was a man who feared nothing, not a ride on the wildest horse or the wildest stock market, and yet he feared speaking the words in his heart to this gentle, beautiful woman. What if she rejected him? Dios, it would kill him? But the words needed saying. He had only admitted them to himself as he'd walked to the house this morning, still seeing her in his mind's eye, remembering how empty his life had been without her, how she had wept when he'd made love to her. He knew what he felt. And he was almost sure he knew what she felt.? "Esmé." He drew a deep breath. "Esmé, I love you." He thought, at first, she hadn't heard him. She just went on looking at him, staring at him?but then he saw the rush of color into her pale face and he felt his heart swell. "I love you," he said again. "I adore you, querida, and yes, you are coming home with me, and yes, you are moving in with me." He laughed softly. "I suspect that is the worst marriage proposal in the world, my beloved, but then, I have never asked a woman to marry me before." Esmé laughed. She cried. She rose on her toes and kissed him. Rio cleared his throat. "Is that a yes?" he said nervously. "You do love me?" "Oh, yes. I love you, Rio. I've loved you for so long.? That was why I left you, because I knew you were going to tell me it was over?" He shook his head. "I lied to myself, sweetheart. My need for you terrified me, so I tried to put you at arm's length, but it was useless." He drew her to him and kissed her, not just with passion but with love. "Marry me," he said, and leaned his forehead against hers. "Marry me, and tell me you want lots of babies.? What?" "How soon do you want those babies?" she whispered. His eyes met hers, searched out the meaning of her question. "I'm pregnant," she said, and he pumped his fist into the air. "I am going to be a papa!" Rio swept her into his arms. He spun in a circle, and then he stopped and kissed her with all the love in his heart. "You will be my joy," he said softly, "all the days of my life." "And you will be my love," Esmé murmured, "forever."
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Love Letters by Barbara McMahon Stacey Jerome always believed Zach Taylor only married her because she became pregnant, and her thoughts were confirmed when he left town to start a career as a race car driver right after she miscarried the baby. Having gone on with her life since then, Stacey moved to the big city and built up a business as a wedding consultant, giving brides the dream day she never had. Imagine her shock when a glance down the aisle during one ceremony finds her looking into the eyes of her husband, a man she hasn’t heard from in seven years! Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Chapter One Stacey Jerome checked her watch. Timing was perfect. With a quiet glow of satisfaction, she smiled at the bride nervously waiting. She reached out and twitched the gown into a perfect fold. The train was spread out behind, the lace and beading shimmered in the light. The father of the bride cleared his throat. “Time?” he asked. “In just a moment the organ will begin the wedding march, that’ll be your cue,” she said easily. After five years of managing weddings big and small, she was confident in all the plans made for this particular one. Marcie Evans was radiant. Stacey felt a pang, as she did at almost every wedding, remembering her own hurried affair at Carson Valley City Hall. She’d always dreamed of a lavish wedding, complete with bridal gown, a half dozen bridesmaids and a celebration reception with family and friends that went on forever. She hadn’t had that, so she did her best to give a perfect day to every one of her clients. The organist shifted from the music she’d played for the bridesmaids’ entry to Lohengren’s Wedding March. The familiar chords filled Grace Cathedral resounding loud enough to be heard outside by tourists and San Franciscans alike. Stacey smiled in reassurance. “I’ll meet you right here after the ceremony,” she assured Marcie. “We’ll take photos at the altar and then head for the reception.” As the bride began her walk down the long aisle of the old cathedral, Stacey watched from the door. The huge church was almost filled to capacity. Harry Evans was a City Councilman, a patron of the opera and one of the richest men in San Francisco. His only daughter was marrying a man he deemed worthy of her, so he had pulled out all stops. Stacey’s gaze moved to the groom. His eyes were for Marcie only. She smiled again. This was going to be perfect. Her gaze drifted around the standing congregation. One man, near the front on the groom’s side, stood taller than the people surrounding him. He turned his head and his gaze locked with hers. For a moment Stacey’s heart stopped. It couldn’t be! She felt the church spin around her. It was a coincidence, someone who looked like Zach. He couldn’t be here. He was off daring death on his wild need to race Formula One cars at record speeds. She almost marched down the aisle to him, but reason took hold. Then, with a wink, he turned to face the front. Stacy forgot about the myriad details still remaining to ensure the wedding and reception progressed flawlessly. Her breath hitched. What on earth could Zach be doing here? She’d often dreamed of running into him again. Sometimes she slapped him so hard his head snapped back. Other times, she pretended she hadn’t a clue who he was, and when reminded, feigned difficulty in remembering. Once in a while, she let herself fantasize his return was because he couldn’t live without her. But that was so far from reality she rarely let herself indulge in that particularly fantasy.
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Stacey backed into the antechamber, wishing she could deny what she’d seen. There was no way the husband who had married her seven years ago and abandoned her two weeks later would show up out of the blue now. Chapter Two Two hours later Stacy wanted to scream. She was operating on two levels - one the competent wedding consultant, making sure everything went perfectly for her client. The other, a frustrated woman who couldn’t stop thinking about Zach. The crowd at the St. Francis Yacht Club made it impossible to pause even for a moment to search out any one particular person. Still, even as she kept an eye on the celebration, she searched each dark-haired man who came into her line of sight. If he had been at the church, he was sure to be at the reception. Then it happened. For another endless moment, Stacey locked eyes with Zach Taylor, the husband she had not seen in seven years. Not seen, not heard from, tried to forget. The activity surrounding her faded, it was as if she and Zach were alone in the universe. Reality returned when Stacey’s assistant nudged her. “The music will be starting soon, and the dancing. Should we do anything to hurry them along in eating?” The spell broken, Stacy dragged her eyes away and looked at Lila. “No, the music will automatically have them finishing. After a few dances, we’ll have the bridal couple cut the cake.” She wanted to look around. Wanted to see what Zach was doing. Was he coming to speak to her? Or had he slipped out of a side door, not wanting a confrontation? “Then the older crowd can feel free to leave,” Lila said wisely. Stacey nodded, her throat tight with tension. Every cell was attuned to Zach. She couldn’t be focused on him, she needed to concentrate on the tasks at hand. “You look as if you need a drink,” a deep, once familiar voice said. Zach Taylor stood next to her, holding out a glass of champagne. Lila smiled brightly and slipped away. Stacey wanted to call her back, but her voice wouldn’t work. She stared at the champagne. “I’m working, I don’t drink when I’m on a job,” she said stiffly. She couldn’t bring herself to look up into the dark eyes she knew she’d recognize. The scenarios she’d so often pictured faded. The reality was she didn’t have a word to say to him. Her heart fluttered, memories crowded painfully in her mind. Of the love she’d once felt for him, the awe that the hell-raising favorite son of their home town had noticed her. Their final words yelled in anger. “How have you been, Stace?” he asked. He took a sip of the sparkling beverage. Her eyes tracked the glass, watched his lips caress the edge as he drank. Lips that had once brought her to ecstacy. And shattered her world when they spoke goodbye. “Just fine,” she said, glancing around, wishing desperately someone would rescue her, or that she’d find the strength to walk away. She didn’t want to be within a mile of Zach and his seductive lips, his bedroom eyes, his overwhelming sexy magnetism. But her feet felt rooted. Seven years had passed. Hadn’t she built up any resistance? She did not love him. She didn’t even like him. But she couldn’t walk away. That was his way, not hers.
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“Zach, here you are. Jason’s been looking for you.” The pretty blond bridesmaid came up and took his arm. She smiled at Stacey. “It’s a fabulous wedding. When I get married, I want you to be the consultant!” She turned back to Zach. “Come on, Jason and Marcie are ready for the toasts, and you’re elected to give one.” Zach looked at Stacey. “I’ll call you.” “Don’t bother.” “It’s no bother.” Without warning, he leaned over and kissed her. Chapter Three Zach watched Stacey turn and walk away. He was barely conscious of Jason’s sister hanging on his arm. He couldn’t believe he’d run into his wife. Pain pierced as he remembered their last words. He’d been such a young, arrogant fool. His world had been on a roller coaster for months - from the day he met Stacey. How was he to have known how things would turn out? “Wow,” Julia said. “I didn’t know you knew the wedding consultant.” She looked after Stacy with speculation. “And very well, I’d say.” “We’ve known each other since high school,” he replied, not willing to share private matters. “Let’s go get the toast over with.” “Jason was thrilled you were able to stop off in San Francisco to come to the wedding,” Julia said as they walked toward the head table. “He convinced Marcie to plan the wedding when there were no races scheduled, but he knows your training is on-going.” “I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said politely. He glanced over his shoulder, Stacey had disappeared. But he now knew she ran Rainbow Weddings. He’d asked Jason the first instant he’d spotted her. He could find her with no trouble. Her being here surprised him, as did the fact she ran a very successful business. How long had she been in San Francisco? He hadn’t heard she’d left Carson Valley. Not that he kept close ties with anyone in that town. Once he left, he hadn’t looked back. His parents hadn’t forgiven him for his actions. It looked as if Stacey hadn’t either. It was past time to mend fences. If they could be mended. The reception of his friend’s wedding wasn’t the place to do it, however. He’d find her later, take her to dinner. They’d discuss things like rational adults. When the bride and groom departed amidst much fanfare a couple of hours later, Zach looked around for Stacey. He couldn’t find her in the dwindling crowd. His jaw tightened. She’d run out on him. Was that any way for a wife to act? A thought struck. She was still his wife, wasn’t she? Or had she gotten a divorce sometime during the last seven years? Could she do that without his consent? He hadn’t heard anything from her. No response from her to his letters. Not a card at Christmas or his birthday. No demand for more support money. He faithfully deposited funds in their account each month. She’d never said if it were enough or not. Once he began to win races, the money poured in. He’d made sure he’d shared it with Stacey. She must have used it to set up her business. He wasn’t into romancy stuff. Normally he avoided weddings like the plague. Why had Stacey gone into this business? They hadn’t had a fancy wedding. Regret stirred. Their wedding could best be termed brief and business-like. The city hall conference room had held the remnants of a business meeting, with papers scattered around the long table. They’d stood by the window, and he remembered gazing out at the parking
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lot. Only their closest friends Tim and Margo had stood up with them. They had not had their family or other friends. No fancy cake. No reception. Hell of a wedding, now that he thought about it. But he’d done what he thought was right. Stacey had been pregnant with his baby. He married her. Now he wanted to speak to his wife. If she thought ducking out early would slow him down, she didn’t know him very well. But she would. Chapter Four Stacey knew hearing from Zach again was inevitable. Seeing him at the wedding had not prepared her for that kiss. Why had he kissed her? The thought had been churning at the forefront of her mind since his lips touched hers. How dare he act as if they were friends. How dare he awaken memories best left deeply buried. His kiss had burned into her psyche and she fervently wished it hadn’t. She wanted nothing more to do with Zachary Taylor! Since the moment she’d spotted him at the wedding, however, she’d known he’d want to speak to her. When the phone call came Monday morning around ten, she was resigned to it. “I’ll take you to lunch,” he said without preamble. “I’m busy.” “You’re not, you’re avoiding me.” “Oh, like you’ve avoided me for the last seven years?” she asked sweetly. Her hands were clammy with nerves. She wanted to rail against him for what he’d done. But some small part of her yearned to hear what he had to say, learn what he’d been doing with his life. For a few brief, wonderful days, she’d thought she’d share that life with him. Never again would she let herself be carried away by some man’s blandishments. She had her feet firmly on the ground and would never open herself up again to heartache that could not be mended. “We need to talk.” “The time for talking was years ago. Why are you really calling me? Do you want something?” she asked, refusing to dwell on that brief brush of lips another second. “To see you.” His voice was low and seductive. Stacey remembered how she’d been so enchanted with it when she had been a teenager. Wasn’t she wiser now? “There’s no reason.” “You’re my wife, that’s reason enough.” She drew a deep breath, wishing her heart would stop pounding. “Lunch, then. But not a long one. I have a heavy workload. August is a busy month for eddings, and we have seven more to manage before month end.” “As a guest, I have to say Jason and Marcie’s wedding seemed perfect.”
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“As long as the bride and groom feel the same, I’m pleased.” She couldn’t help the tiny burst of pride she felt with his compliment. If he stayed around long enough, he’d see his teenage bride had matured into a competent, successful businesswoman. One who had no need of him. Would the knowledge make any difference? Not to the outcome of their marriage, that had been determined long ago. “I’ll pick you up at noon,” he said, and hung up. She leaned back in her chair, toying with her pencil. Two hours until lunch. Could she fortify her defenses in that length of time? She’d be cool and calm. She could do this. And then he’d say goodbye and leave for another seven years. Or longer. This time she knew what to expect. He was not a man to stand by his vows, to make a commitment and stick with it. Zach Taylor lived for himself alone. And no one knew that better than she. A split second of fantasy gave rise to his asking her to come with him on the race circuit. She laughed over the ache in her heart. That would never happen. Why did he really want to see her today? To talk over old times? Or end their farce of a marriage? Chapter Five Stacey was standing on the sidewalk when Zach showed up. By the gleam in his eyes, she wondered if she’d made a mistake waiting outside. Her purpose had been to keep her present life as separate from her former one as she could. She hadn’t wanted him in her office. Surely he didn’t think she was anxious to see him. If so, she’d disabuse him of that notion fast. “Stace,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. The first one had been a total shock. This time she was prepared. Sidestepping the intended kiss, she watched him warily. “Zach,” she warned. He smiled, that heart-stopping lopsided grin that had set her toes tingling when she was younger. Darn it all, it still did. She looked at the cab, still parked at the curb. “Are we going in that?” “Depends where you’d like to eat.” “The Wharf is fine.” She loved seafood. Might as well get something out of lunch. “Then the Wharf it is.” Once settled in the back of the taxi, she scooted nearer the opposite door, keeping as much space between them as she could. “You’re looking good,” Zach said, his eyes skimming over the pale blue suit she wore, lingering on the expanse of legs showing beneath the short hem. She couldn’t return the compliment. She dare not let herself look at him for long. He reached out to brush the back of his fingers across her cheek. She looked at him, drawing back.
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“Leave me alone, Zach. I’m not one of your racetrack bimbos, fascinated by the hot-shot drivers.” “No. But you are my wife.” “Did Jason and Marcie’s wedding jog your memory to that fact?” she asked. “I’ve known it all along. When did you move to San Francisco?” “Years ago.” He looked at her, his dark eyes narrowed. “You never wrote.” “And you did?” she said sarcastically. He nodded. “Many times actually.” Stacey stared at him. He’d written to her? “I never got any letters.” “Stace, I wouldn’t have left and not written, despite the command you issued. I wrote you every week when I first started the circuit. Then when you didn’t answer, I tapered off. You told me to go away and never come back. I began to realize at last you meant it. Lately, I’ve only written at Christmas and your birthday. It didn’t take me too long to figure out you didn’t want to hear from me.” Stunned, Stacey couldn’t take in the concept. “I never heard from you, not once. Not even when you first left me. Do you know what it was like? I lost the baby and you walked out - all in the same week. I was devastated. I had no where to turn, no one to cling to. Nothing. At one point I wondered if I would ever be able to face life again. Zach, I never heard a single word from you!” The muscles in his cheeks tightened as if he were clenching his jaw. “I wrote, Stacey, what happened to the letters?” “I have no idea.” She turned to look out the window as they drew near the Wharf. “It doesn’t matter, does it? What could you have said that would have changed a thing? You left, I was alone — alone with unending grief. You got the life you wanted. Why have you come back?” Chapter Six Why had he come? Zach could give Stacey a solid reason, but would she accept it? Right now she thought running into him at Jason’s wedding had been coincident. Which it had. But his next stop had been scheduled — Carson Valley. He needn’t go there now until things were settled between them. He was startled by her revelation — she’d been left with grief. He had thought she’d share the relief he’d felt when she’d lost the baby. Hadn’t the doctor said a miscarriage was nature’s way. Nothing either of them could have done would have saved their baby. They had been too young to marry, too young to be parents. She’d been nineteen. He hadn’t even been twenty-one. The cab swooped to the curb and stopped.
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He paid the driver and held the door while Stacey slid across the seat, her skirt riding up even higher. Zach swallowed hard, the silken skin enticing him to touch. Clinching his hands into fists, he looked around the bustling tourist area. He remembered every day he’d spent with Stacey. They’d been crazy about each other and he’d been unable to keep his hands off her. Her skin had been so soft, so silky. Her hair had drifted through his fingers like gossamer. She’d liked his touching as much as he had. A lifetime ago. Today, they were older. Had grown apart. Was there anything left between them? The sea air was fresh with the tang of salt on the breeze. In the background he could hear the famous sea lions with their hoarse barking. The sunshine sparkled on the deep blue of the San Francisco Bay. He took a deep breath, wondering why he’d even bothered to try. She looked at him. “The restaurant I like isn’t too touristy. The food is the best, I think.” “Lead on.” In only moments, they were seated by huge floor to ceiling windows, with a spectacular view of the Bay. Their order taken, Zach looked at Stacey. “We were too young,” he said. She looked at him. “We were young, but too young? How do you figure?” “Stace, you were right out of high school.” “And all you wanted to do was race cars.” He nodded. “What did you want?” Funny, he’d never asked her that. He’d just assumed she’d want what he wanted. “I wanted you.” She laughed softly. “You’re right, we were too young. How could I think all I wanted from life was you?” The scorn in her voice hurt. “You knew all along I wanted to race. I had a chance at the big time.” “Which you turned down when we got married,” she said. “I did right by you. I married you for the sake of the baby.” By the way her eyes widened, Zach knew instantly he’d made a tactical mistake. “Thanks for confirming what I always suspected. If I had not been pregnant, we never would have married,” she said. She looked out the window at the view. Zach suspected she wasn’t seeing the Bay, but back down the years to Carson Valley. “When there was no baby, I knew I needed to leave. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I had to take that opportunity. Did you want me to stay home and be a pharmacist like my dad?” “At least I’d know you were safe and alive,” she snapped turning back to face him. He looked at her, a ray of hope breaking through. “You were worried about me?”
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Chapter Seven Stacey shrugged, as a response to his question. But Zach pushed. “So you were worried.” “Scared silly, was more like it. I watched every car race I could get on television after you left, hoping to hear something about you. Until I saw a racer get killed in a fiery explosion. I couldn’t watch after that, I was afraid that might be you one day.” The fear she felt showed in her voice. “It’s rare that someone gets killed,” Zach said, knowing that was the dread of every racer’s family. “Rare maybe, but not unknown. Anyway, I moved on.” “Left Carson Valley and came to San Francisco. I was heading home after the wedding, you know,” he said easily. Wondering what he would have done had he arrived there and found her gone. “Why?” He took a breath, glad when the waiter arrived with their food. He waited until they’d been served, then spoke, “I figured it was time to mend fences.” “Life has gone on for seven years, what makes you think any of us want fences mended?” He should have known it wouldn’t be easy. How would his parents react? Had they also not received his letters? They, too, never wrote. He reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away. “I never meant to hurt you, Stacey. But I wanted my chance in the sun. Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly you’d do anything to get it?” She didn’t move, but he knew she was thinking. About him? “I should have come home. I asked more than once in my letters if you’d join me. When you didn’t respond, I thought that meant no. I wrote so often and never heard a word from you.” “The famous letters,” she scoffed. “Stacey Taylor, PO Box 73, Carson Valley,” he recited. “Zach, I never used that post office box. You left and I went home — where my folks were less than happy with me for running off to marry you in the first place. Surely after the annual fee expired, the post office would have returned your mail.” “I don’t put on return addresses. I travel a lot, never know where I’ll be to get mail. I gave you a cell phone number to reach me and the address of the sponsor’s office. They forward mail to me.” “Don’t you have a home somewhere?” He shook his head. “There’s training, racing, and planning strategies on new courses all over the world. I told you, I travel a lot.”
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“But everyone has a home.” “I thought I had one in Carson Valley, now find out I don’t.” “Did you think I was just going to stay in that poky apartment and wait until you deigned to return? For seven years? Get real.” For some reason, Zach had thought almost exactly that. In his mind, Stacey had been in stasis, not changing, not moving away. Not altering the adoration she had for him. But that had been fantasy. He’d known when she hadn’t replied to his letters their marriage was over. He wanted a chance now to change things. “I thought you’d wait for me.” It did sound dumb, when he put it in words. She’d been too vibrant to meekly await his return. “As soon as I could scratch together enough money, I left for San Francisco. At least here no one knew I’d been married and abandoned in two weeks’ time.” “Scratch together enough money? How much did you need? What about the money I sent?” Chapter Eight “What money?” Stacey asked. Talking with Zach had been long overdue. She was learning things she never imagined. “I sent you money every chance I got. I worked on a pit crew until I got my chance to drive. When I started making some money in racing, I sent it to you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Same P.O. box?” “No, I deposited money directly to the bank — to our joint account.” Stacey felt the world tilt a little. “I never did anything with that account. I assumed it was empty after you left. I still had the one I opened in my name; it was easier to use that one until I moved here. Didn’t the bank statements show I never used the money?” “The address was the P.O. Box. I never read the statements. What do you mean easier to use your old account?” “I never changed my last name. You were gone before I could do so.” She shrugged, remembering. “After you left, I didn’t bother.” “So you still go by Stacey Jerome?” She nodded. There was no reason to feel a prick of guilt. A woman married for two weeks didn’t really need to change her name. He leaned back, pushed his dish away. “You haven’t finished,” she commented, hoping he wouldn’t make the same remark about her almost full plate. “I’m having a hard time getting all this. No wonder you hate me, if you thought I abandoned you and left you to your own devices all these years.”
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“I don’t hate you,” she said, realizing with a start that it was true. Hate required more emotions that she was able to give. She didn’t want to be around him, to be reminded of their past, to put herself in any danger of falling for him again. But she didn’t hate him. “You don’t love me, either,” he said. “No more than you love me. You said it yourself, you wouldn’t have married me if I hadn’t been pregnant.” “Not then.” “Not ever. If you are finished, I need to get back to work. Thanks for lunch.” And the enlightening information. She wanted to think over what she’d learned. Maybe he wasn’t the black-hearted creature she’d thought him. Would that change her feelings? She looked at him. “Is there really money in the bank account? Wouldn’t the bank have tried to find one or the other of us if the account was still active? It was seven months after you left before I did. Surely some attempt would have been made to locate me. Carson Valley isn’t that large a town.” “Come with me to Carson Valley and let’s find out what happened.” Stacey looked at him, the refusal trembling on her lips. She didn’t want to go back. Her parents were not happy with her. Her in-laws had never liked her. She knew the gossip that had run rampant when Zach had left. How could he ask her to face all that? Yet, how much of the situation did he know? Stacey was no longer the devastated young woman who had fled looking for sanctuary in the anonymity of a large city. She had proved herself to herself. Who else mattered? For a moment the thought of her baby came to mind. She had done all she could to make sure if her child had known her, she would have been proud of her mother. Would the baby have been proud of Zach? Beyond his departure, he’d set out a goal and achieved it. “Are you happy?” she blurted out. “Was it worth it, Zach? Did you find your dream?” Chapter Nine “Let’s get out of here,” Zach said, summoning their waiter. “We can walk along the embarcadero or something while we talk.” Stacey shook her head. “I have to get back. This is a busy time for Rainbow Weddings and I can’t leave all the work to my assistants.” She didn’t want to explore how tempting his offer was. He paid the check and escorted her outside. “Have dinner with me,” he said, making no effort to flag down a cab. “I don’t think so.” Stacey had to watch out or she’d believe his tale and start to soften. She needed to remember how he’d let her down. She didn’t want that kind of heartache again. “Dreams change,” he said, glancing over the water. The breeze played with his hair, whipping Stacey’s around her face. She reached up to pull it back, but he beat her to it, brushing back the strands with gentle fingers. His eyes looked deep into hers. “I apologize for leaving you so long. For leaving you to deal with the
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loss of the baby alone. Racing kept me focused and helped to deal with the grief. I truly thought you’d come join me.” “You never came back,” she said. “I did. I’m here.” “Seven years after the fact. That’s so long — a lifetime. I’m not the girl you knew.” “And I’m not that young man who left. Give me a chance, Stacey. Get to know me today, see who I am now before judging.” Her heart raced. Why was he asking her to do that? “For what purpose? I have my life, you have yours. I can’t imagine you giving up racing, and I won’t give up what I’ve worked hard to attain.” Not to mention the peace of mind she worked hard to achieve. Sometimes she was lonely, but it beat the sorrow of the past. “Can’t we look for a compromise? I don’t race every week; you don’t have weddings every day. Take a break and come with me. See my world.” “Are you willing to see mine?” she asked. The images he provoked were daring. How would it feel to be in the stands with avid fans, watching the exotic cars in their race against time and each other? Hear the cheering, smell the exhaust, feel the fear at every turn, every time someone tried to pass? “I’m not good at the wedding thing,” he said. “And I’m not good at watching as men defy death.” Impasse. “Then come with me to Carson Valley. Let’s clear everything up, and if you want to go on your way, I won’t stop you. I want to see my folks. Make peace with yours. Revisit old places and see old friends.” “Are you on a pilgrimage or something?” she asked, wondering when the nostalgia bug had bitten him. When she’d known him, the last thing he wanted was to be in Carson Valley. “You could say that. Will you come with me?” “I don’t understand any of this,” she said. “What do you really want?” He cupped her chin with his hand, leaning closer. “You’re my wife. I want you.” Chapter Ten Zach’s words echoed in Stacey’s mind as she took a cab back to Rainbow Weddings. Outwardly she appeared to be looking at the passing scenery, but her mind was focused on the past. She had been so wild about Zach. They had been so hot for each other, beginning to date right after her graduation from high school. He worked for Mr. Pendleton, the best mechanic in town. He had loved cars. And she had thought he loved her. That summer had been magical. They’d spent every free moment together. They swam in the river, sometimes with friends, more often alone in a secluded section. They attended parties together, went to the drive-in theater. Made love under the stars.
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She grew warm thinking about the way his lips had awakened every cell in her body. The way his hands had caressed her skin, the drumming demand of completion that propelled them into lovemaking that flashed by with unworldly speed. Sometimes the nights seemed endless, like they were floating on clouds in an unending sky. Other times, it went by too fast. The entire summer had. And then she’d become pregnant. “Here you are,” the cab driver said. She gave him the fare and hurried inside. She had more to do than moon over a man who talked a good line, but whose actions proved the point — he was not for her. Stacey had expected his call that morning, but she had not expected he would be waiting for her at her apartment when she returned home. He was leaning casually against the wall near the large double glass doors. It was a secure building. He couldn’t enter without a key, or a resident releasing the lock. “Now what?” she asked when he stood straight, looking right at her. His broad shoulders hinted at dependability, as if a woman could rely on him. His chest had filled out over the years, he was no longer a young boy, but a man in his prime. His dark hair blew slightly in the wind. Did it whip around when he was racing? No, she knew he wore a helmet. He’d changed into casual slacks, and wore a designer polo shirt. The gold watch on his wrist looked expensive, as did the bouquet of flowers he held out to her. There had been no flowers in the past. Money had been too tight. From the cut of his clothes, and that exclusive watch, she knew money was no longer a problem with Zach. She wanted to stay firm, to send him on his way, but the flowers were too enticing. She smiled and reached out to brush her fingertips across the soft blossoms. “They’re beautiful.” “Not as beautiful as you,” he said. She pulled a face. “That’s so trite,” she said. “Probably because it’s an old truth.” He pushed them toward her and she took them, breathing in their sweet fragrance. “Thank you.” When she looked at him, she detected a hint of hunger in his eyes, or desperation. She blinked and looked again. He glanced away. She must have imagined it. But for a moment she felt a shiver of uncertainty. “I’d still like to take you to dinner,” he said. His words at lunch echoed again — he wanted her. “Dinner only? Chapter Eleven “Dinner only,” Zach said. “Where would you like to go?” “Upstairs. I need to change. Might as well eat here. I have enough pasta and vegetables to make something.” She used her key to unlock the large glass door. Zach pushed it open for her and followed her to the elevator.
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Entering her apartment a few moments later, Stacey tried to see it through his eyes. It was not fancy. She had serviceable furniture, a few photos and two paintings on the wall. Her large window overlooked the street, with a narrow view of downtown, which was spectacular after dark when the lights glittered in the night sky. Zach studied the living room for a moment. She waited -for what? Some hint of praise? Some remark that would make her feel comfortable in her own home? She headed for the kitchen, dropping her purse on the sofa as she passed. “I’ll put these in water,” she said. He followed her, looking at the small kitchen, the tiny table at one end with one chair. “Nice place,” he said. “It suits me.” Did he think the single chair was pathetic? Did it give away the fact she never had people over? Let him think any dinners parties were buffet style. Why did she care? She placed the bouquet in a large container, filling it with water. The fragrance filled the room. She couldn’t help smiling at the beautiful array of flowers. “I’ll change and be right back,” she said. Stacey wanted the space and time. She hurried to her room, and closed the door. Taking off the suit she’d worn to work, she searched for something to wear. Not too dressy, that would give a wrong impression. Not too informal, she didn’t want him getting the wrong idea, either. Finally, realizing time was passing, she pulled on a pair of shorts and a midriff shirt. Glancing in the mirror, she wondered if it was too much — or rather, too little. Tough. Let him eat his heart out for what he’d rejected. She brushed her hair and raised her chin, sailing out into the living room. Zach was studying the photos in the collage on one wall. He turned, his gaze running from her bare feet up to her eyes. She couldn’t tell what he thought, but she felt as if he’d caressed her by his glance. “None of me, I see,” he said, nodding toward the photographs. “Nope.” She walked back toward the kitchen, noticing he’d placed the flowers on the table in front of the windows. Their colors glowed in the afternoon sun. When she passed him, his hand came out, and caught her arm, his finger caressing the tender bare skin of her inner arm. “I meant what I said at lunch. Life’s too short to waste another minute. I want you, Stacey.” She pulled free and faced him. “Exactly what is it you want, Zach? Another chance at a full relationship, including home and hearth, kids and growing old together? Or another summer of wild, wicked lovemaking before you head back out to the tracks? And why me? I’m sure you’ve had your choice of women over the years. You expect me to believe you were heading back to Carson Valley to claim a bride you haven’t seen in years? Why now? Why this moment in time instead of another?”
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Chapter Twelve Zach didn’t know how to answer. Tell her the truth, of course. But what was the truth? That he had grown tired of being on his own? He was tired of feeling like a pariah. That he wanted someone who meant something to him to share his good fortunes, and bad? Or tell her that Bart’s death had changed him somehow. He no longer took anything for granted. He knew life was fragile, fleeting. Bart Nicholls had been his age, and died on the track two weeks ago. Racers didn’t get killed often, but it happened. A good man was dead. His family mourned. His friend mourned, and then took a long look at their own lives. Would Stacey want to hear that? “Forget it,” she said, heading for the kitchen. He stared at the family portraits she had hung. Her mother and father, years ago, as he remembered them. They were in the yard, near the old picnic table they so often ate dinner on during summer months. They looked happy. He studied the next one, Stacey’s best friend Margo. What happened to her? The next was of Stacey and Margo, at the river. Their young bodies looked slim and healthy, though he gave little thought to Margo, staring at the young girl Stacey had been. Her choice of clothes today was interesting. A suit for a competent business woman, and short shorts and a top that lay her midriff bare for at home wear. What a contrast. He clenched his hands into fists, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to run his fingers over that enticing strip of skin at the top of her shorts. See if it was still as soft as before. He wanted to touch her all over, feel her heat, hear the soft murmurs she made when in the throes of passion. Taste her unique flavor, and forget past, present and future in her arms. Would telling her why he had come back help or hurt his case? What did he want — forever after, or just some closure for the present? He thought he had time to decide. But he’d run into her here instead of Carson Valley. No time to prepare. And she wasn’t willing to give an inch. He had to make up his mind what he wanted and go for it just as he had done before. Could he ever prove to her he could be trusted? That if she gave him another chance, he wouldn’t let her down again? It did not look like he was going to get that chance — at least not any time soon. Resolutely, he headed for the kitchen. The longest journey began with a single step. Maybe somewhere along the way, he’d find the answers he needed. And hopefully the words to convince Stacey. “Like pasta?” she asked when he entered the kitchen. “I like meat.” “I’ll throw some chicken on the salad. If you want to help, get out the lettuce, tomatoes and carrots from the refrigerator.” Zach had done his share of cooking over the years. Even though he didn’t have an apartment to call home, he tried to stay in motels that offered kitchenettes, preferring to eat alone in private rather than alone in restaurants.
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Together they made a good team. He prepared a salad while she fixed the main course. From time to time they’d bump into each other. He watched her while she worked, trying to figure out if the contact was deliberate on her part or not. He suspected not. Seven years ago he’d walked out. Now he realized all he’d walked out on. Could he prove to Stacey he was a man she could take a chance on? Chapter Thirteen Stacey knew before dinner was finished that she’d made a mistake. She should have kept on her office clothes, and insisted if they shared a dinner, that they found the most formal restaurant in the city, one that was full of convivial customers, which would have dispelled any sense of intimacy. Preparing dinner together had been bittersweet. She remembered the few dinners they’d prepared together after their marriage. More often than not for those fourteen days, they’d ended up in bed before eating. Brushing against Zach today set every nerve on alert. She knew the dangers of getting involved again, but her body had been too long dormant. It craved his touch. She forced down the meal, trying not to think. Talk during dinner was non-confrontational. It was as if both knew the storm was coming, and wanted to enjoy what they could of the meal. He asked her how she liked San Francisco. She asked him how Paris was in springtime. At one point she thought she would laugh aloud at how prim and proper they both sounded, when just below the surface, tension seethed. Finally he lay down his fork, his plate empty. He leaned back on the sofa and Stacey took that as a cue to clear away their plates.“I can help with dishes if you want,” he said. “Won’t take me but five minutes. Want coffee?” “Don’t drink it,” he said. “You don’t?” That was surprising. “Don’t want caffeine nerves. I need all I’ve got to focus on the course when I race.” She swallowed hard, torn between wishing she could see him race, and the fear that ever lurked when she thought about the dangers. “I’ll be right back.” It wasn’t fleeing to leave. But it felt like it. For a few moments, she felt safe, as if the coming storm could be averted. As if things could go back to the way they were last week, before Zach’s arrival had turned her world upside down for the second time in her life. She stalled for as long as she could. But when the last plate had been put away and the counter wiped, there was nothing stopping her from returning to her guest. Zach stood near the window, gazing out. She should have expected that, he never sat still for long, unless they’d been watching a movie. Even then, his attentions seemed to be split between what was on the screen, and her. Had he spoiled her for every other man? She’d been so overwhelmed by him. Cherishing every moment together, had she forged unachievably high standards that mere mortals could never attain?
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He’d had feet of clay. Maybe that was why his leaving had been so hard. Not that she wouldn’t have missed him in any other circumstance, but that he could walk away when she thought the sun rose in him, that had been unforgivable. He turned and watched her enter the room. Stacey felt a pull of attraction she tried to ignore. She was immune to the man. She knew he was not for her. All the wishing in the world over the last seven years had proved that. “Shall we get it over with?” she asked. “Get what over with?” “The discussion. Then you can be on your way and I can get back to my normal life.” “I was serious earlier. I want you in my life. Come with me and see my world. In two weeks I have a race in Spa. Come with me to Belgium.” Chapter Fourteen Go with Zach to Belgium? He said it as easily as she might ask a friend to go to Los Angeles. But Europe wasn’t the same as LA. And he wasn’t a friend. Stacey wasn’t exactly sure how she’d classify Zach today. His mere presence set her world on end. And the revelations he’d made had her thinking and reassessing their entire past. She opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly placed his finger on her lips. “No, don’t answer today. Wait and think about it. I’ll ask you again. But until then, just think about it, okay?” She nodded. He slipped his hand down and took hers, lacing their fingers. “Tell me about Stacey Jerome. Who are her friends, what does she like to do when she’s not working? Where do you go on vacation? How do you spend the holidays?” “Talking can’t make up the lost years, Zach. Are you seeking a reunion? Where everything comes out perfectly as if the past never happened?” He shook his head. “The past happened. I caused the rift between us. But don’t forget, Stacey, you told me to go and never come back. Those were the very words you said that night.” “After you said you still had a chance to race. I was heartsick over the loss of our baby, and you were glowing with the thought of leaving everything behind to race some stupid cars. I was scared silly. I didn’t want you to go.” “Then why tell me to?” She rolled her eyes and tugged on her hand. He did not release her. Stacey refused to examine why she didn’t try harder. She would not admit to liking the feel of his hand around hers even thought it felt good. Right. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean a lot of what was said that last night. I was hurting. I expected you to stay with me. Grieve with me. I don’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t that you’d leave.”
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He shook his head. “I’ll never understand women. Why can’t you just say what you mean?” “Poor baby, do all your women give you a hard time?” She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. She could imagine the scene at each race — the pretty women hanging on successful drivers. Sharing the spotlight they couldn’t attain on their own. Spending time with him that should have been hers. Seeing the excitement of the races, and reaping the rewards when he won. Jealousy flared. This time she succeeded in pulling her hand free. “I wouldn’t say all,” he said, his eyes narrowed slightly. Was there a hint of amusement lurking? She looked away, angry he wasn’t taking the conversation more seriously. “Just most, then.” She remembered the frustration, fear and anger of that long-ago night. Would they end up saying things they didn’t mean now? “Mostly you,” he said slowly. “What about the rest of your women?” “What rest?” “Are you telling me you never dated in seven years?” she asked in disbelief. Impossible! He was too dynamic, too virile. He could set hearts fluttering by merely walking into a room. “Have you?” he countered. Chapter Fifteen Zach waited for Stacey to answer his question, to laugh and tell him she had dozens of lovers over the past seven years. The seconds ticked by. Her expression moved from stricken to impassive. Her eyes moved to look out of the window. The laughing response never came. For a moment Zach felt sick. She had not dated in seven years? “Why, Stace?” he asked gently. Tears shimmered in her eyes. He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He had never meant for any of this to happen. Where had things gone so wrong? With him. He should have called, should have stormed back to Carson Valley and demanded she come with him after that first successful race. He’d had nothing to offer before that. But two years after he’d left, he’d had something to offer. He should have returned to Carson Valley then. “Stacey?” “You know the old saying, once burned, twice shy. I just haven’t found a man I wish to take a chance with. Besides,” she glanced at him with a hint of anger, “I’m married. I need to get divorced before I start dating again.” He nodded. As he should have done. Dammit, he’d screwed up even more than he liked to admit. Would anything have changed if Bart hadn’t died? Would he have changed a thing, or continued along until he was old, used up and no good to anyone? “Do you want a divorce?” he asked. Maybe it would be better if they just ended things now. He could continue on his own way. She’d be free to date. To find someone else. To have that family she once talked about. “Is there any reason not to get one?”
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He couldn’t think of a single reason, except he didn’t want one. For the first time in years, racing didn’t hold center stage in his life. He wanted more. “I thought we might see where being together leads us. Maybe we don’t have enough for a marriage. But should we give up without any effort?” “Most marriages I know have the husband and wife living together, sharing their evenings, weekends. You are already talking about taking off for Belgium.” “We’re not kids anymore, Stacey. We can define our marriage however we want. I do race from March to October. And I practice a lot, to keep reflexes sharp, to test the cars, the different engines and tires. But I can do some of that in California. For the most part, there are only a couple of races each month. I can be here the rest of the time.” “Really? Or would only your body be here, but your mind off on some race course thousands of miles away.” “Would it matter?” “To me. There’s more to sharing a life than sharing an apartment.” “Give us a chance. Give me a chance. Until a week from Wednesday. I’ll have to leave for Belgium then. And I hope you’ll be coming with me. What do you say? She shook her head. He’d hoped to talk her into giving them a chance. What would it take? Chapter Sixteen Stacey couldn’t believe what Zach was suggesting. That they give their marriage a try? For a week? How convenient for him. Then he was off to Europe, and she’d be left to pick up the pieces once again. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him in for a moment without risking her hard-won peace. Yet, she wasn’t sure how to explain that without giving him the idea she might still care. Another moment passed. Zach watched her. She could feel her skin heat under his regard. Feel the temptation build to take what he offered. No emotions need be involved. He had been vague enough in his suggestion, just see where it led. No commitment. Not that he’d stick to a commitment once he made it. She knew that. Unexpectedly, he reached out and cradled her head in his strong hands, tilting her head back a bit to close his lips over hers. Stacey couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Only feel. Feel the warmth of his lips, the excitement that invaded every cell in her body at his touch. She opened her mouth, almost moaning in the sheer delight of his kiss. Her body clamored for more. She reached up and encircled his neck with her arms, pressing against him, savoring the sensations that exploded. She had loved this man so much when she was younger. For a moment the agony of loss faded. The past faded. Only this moment in time seemed real. For as long as it lasted, she’d hang on for the ride. His arms drew her closer. His mouth left hers to nip kisses along her cheek, her jaw, landing on the pulse point at the base of her throat.
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Shivers danced on her spine in contrast to the heat that engulfed her. “Give us a chance,” he whispered in her ear, gently teasing the lobe. “Say yes, Stacey.” “It won’t work,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t stop. She never wanted him to stop. When his hand moved to her waist and caressed the bare skin showing beneath her top, she almost lost her balance. Her knees felt decidedly weak. “You are so soft. So sweet. I want you. I want my wife.” She was nineteen again, and so in love she couldn’t see straight. She loved Zach Taylor, the wildest boy in town. They could conquer the world together. If they ever could break away long enough to do anything but kiss and make love. She wanted to be closer, wanted that connection that only he could bring. But it was false. It was physical only. There was no meeting of the minds, no marriage made in heaven. In fact their marriage had only been to do the right thing when she got pregnant. Remembering that fact was like a dash of cold water. Stacey pushed against him, freeing herself. She was disgusted at how hard she was breathing, how bereft she felt now that she was no longer in his arms. But this wouldn’t solve anything. She needed more. She deserved more. “Stace,” he said, reaching for her again. “This time I call the shots. If you are serious about wanting to see where this is going, then it will be on my terms or not at all!” Chapter Seventeen “And what are those terms?” Zach asked. “We get to know each other. Know what we are like now that we are adults. See if there is more than just passion between us,” Stacey said, wanting to be perfectly clear sexual attraction alone wasn’t enough. “Do we need more than passion?” he asked. “I do.” “I do, sounds like a wedding vow.” “Which I kept.” “I kept the vows, too, Stacey,” he said in a low voice, a hint of anger flaring. “I might have been seen with some other women, but it was only publicity stunts, it never went anywhere. I had a wife whom I thought — I hoped — was waiting for me.” She wanted to believe him. Wanted to know there was a chance. Her heart ached with the loss of years, with the opportunities they’d had and never taken. “Okay, then. Thanks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?” She nodded. “For keeping the vows. That means a lot to me.”
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“Right. Then we can begin by talking over what’s been going on over the last seven years. And seeing how each other lives,” he said. “I’ll go with you and see your work, learn about the ins and outs of wedding planning. And you’ll come with me to Belgium in two weeks.” Stacey wasn’t sure about the two weeks, but she jumped on the chance to have him see more of her world. The next few days were hectic. There was an evening wedding on Friday night, two to see to on Saturday, and a lavish garden wedding on Sunday. Zach kept his word, he went into the office, met Stacey’s staff and did what he could to help. He went with her to the weddings, standing unobtrusively to one side, watching as she also remained in the background, but ensured the ceremonies went off flawlessly. The evenings they devoted to themselves. He spoke about the early days, about the first big race he won, about the other members of the crew. Stacey listened intently, fascinated by the life he painted. No wonder he wanted to race so much, the passion with which he spoke had her riveted and she would be scared to death to even try to drive a track. After Sunday’s wedding, Stacey had a couple of days respite before gearing up for the next weekend’s weddings. The preliminary work had been completed months ago, the last minute checks would be handled by her staff. She took the chance Monday morning to get her hair cut. Zach dropped her off at the salon and said he’d wait in her car until she was ready. Her hairdresser was still with an earlier client, so Stacey sat in the small waiting area, leafing through magazines. In reading an out-of-date weekly news magazine, her attention was caught when she looked at the pictures of a fiery auto crash on a racetrack in Hungary. She shivered, mesmerized by the scene. Slowly she searched for the story, and her heart stopped. The driver was on the same tem as Zach. She scanned the article, then left it on the small table. Rising, she told the receptionist she couldn’t stay and headed outside to find Zach. “That was quick,” he said when she opened the car door and slid inside. “You didn’t tell me a teammate had died recently. Bart Nicholls.” He looked at her, wondering why he hadn’t told her from the beginning. “He was my best friend. He died much too young. It was a senseless death, a tire blew. He has a wife and a small child. It hit me hard.” “And made you think of your own wife? Is this the real reason you came back?” Chapter Eighteen “When death hits that close to home, it gives a man pause. Suddenly the priorities I had didn’t seem as important as coming back and seeing you. Seeing my folks. Heck, I even want to talk to your parents,” Zach said. “So it wasn’t some strong urge to look me up after all these years, just a setting your house in order kind of thing.” “It’s not like that. I’m not planning to die any time soon.” “I’m sure Bart Nicholls didn’t either.” Stacey looked out the windshield, feeling let down and depressed. She’d thought he’d come back because he couldn’t stand it anymore. Instead, it was a pilgrimage in honor of his dead friend. “Did you really want to take up where we left off, or did I leap to conclusions?” she asked, not much caring for the answer. Once again, he hadn’t loved her for her. If it was as a result of his friend’s death, how
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different was that reason from his marrying her initially because she was pregnant. In neither case did she come out on top. “I want to take up from today. We can’t go back to where we were,” Zach said. “I’m not sure I’m up to it,” she said, longing for the serenity of her apartment where she could be alone. “Stacey, this changes nothing.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, looking at him. “I didn’t want you to think...” He didn’t finish the sentence She did it for him, “...that you only came back because of Bart’s death. Why else? You’ve had seven years.” “I didn’t think I was welcomed.” “But you never tried to find out, did you? I want to go home. And I want you to go.” “Deja vu? You’re sending me away?” “I don’t know. But for now, I want to be alone and think about things.” She climbed out of the car when they reached her apartment. “Call me in a couple of days,” she said, and turned to go inside. He called something after her, but she ignored him. She couldn’t believe she’d been so gullible again. When would she ever learn? Or would she if it concerned Zach Taylor? Wednesday Stacey went to work. She had not heard from Zach since he’d dropped her at the apartment Monday morning. She waited for him to call, but he hadn’t. She wasn’t sure exactly where he was staying, so she couldn’t call him. Not that she wanted to. That was wrong, she did want to talk to him. She had so many questions. So many feelings that were jumbled and mixed up. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate on her job. She just wanted something to happen to end this awful sense of loss that was engulfing her. She wished he had never come back. No, that wasn’t true. She wished he loved her as she loved him. She had done so as a young woman, and despite her attempts to end it, she loved him still. That was the reason she hadn’t dated, no other man could hold a candle to Zach. She was probably destined to love him all her life. Wasn’t that a fine fix to be in? When she arrived home that evening, Zach was standing by the apartment doors. Instead of flowers, he held a large box. “I have the letters,” he said. Chapter Nineteen “I don’t believe this,” Stacey said when they were both in her apartment. Zach set the box on the sofa and she sat beside it. He opened it, then went to sit in the chair across the room. “The advantages of living in a small town. Remember Cyrus Snyder?” She shook her head, looking at the stack of envelopes in the bottom of the box. On top was a paper-clipped stack of bank statements. She looked at the balance and her eyes widened.
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She looked at Zach. “That much?” He shrugged. “It was over seven years, I told you.” “Who is Cyrus Snyder?” “The postmaster of Carson Valley. An old-fashioned man who believe in delivering the mail to the recipient.” She nodded, vaguely remembering some old man who was in charge. “When no one picked up the mail, he contacted your mother first, but she refused delivery. Then he called my Dad. No go there, either. Mr. Snyder isn’t the type postmaster who gives up. He kept them. Said he knew one day you or I would show up for the mail. I put them in chronological order. Read them, Stacey. They are your letters.” She picked up the first one and held it for a long moment, her heart beating rapidly. Letters from the past. She checked the postmark, it was just a couple of days after he left. Slowly she opened the envelope and slid the letter out. Opening it, she recognized Zach’s bold handwriting. It was several pages long. She began to read. The first letter brought tears to her eyes. She glanced at him from time to time, but he never said a word, just watched her read the missives he’d written so long ago. The second asked her to join him, just as he’d said. The letters began to blur together as she read them, he’d told her he loved her and wanted her with him. One letter spoke of all the disappointments of the racing circuit, and asked to come home. Another described what hopes he’d had for their child, and future children. Yet another told her of his unbearable loneliness and hurt that she didn’t even answer his letters — if only to rail against him for failing her. Gradually the tones changed. He no longer spoke of coming home, or of her joining him. The frequency diminished. The cards for her birthdays held photos in them. She touched his young face in the first one, glancing again at the man sitting so silently across from her. “I never knew,” she said. “I was alone and hurting and so were you. Why didn’t you come home?” “I asked to, you never said come. You only said go.” “Come home now, Zach. I need you.” He was off the chair in an instant, crossing to pull her into his arms. “I need you to say that. I love you, Stacey. I always have. We didn’t get married because of the baby, we got married because we are a part of each other. We were too young to handle what life threw our way. But we are older and wiser now. Marry me. Have my babies. Grow old with me. What do you say, Stacey? Love me until the end of time, for that’s how long I’ll love you.” Stacey cupped Zach’s face in her palms, gazing deep into his eyes. She saw only love. “I say yes. I love you, Zach, I always have. I’m so sorry for the lost years. For the pain you went through all alone.” “I’m sorry for yours, sweetheart. I always thought you were ignoring me. It never once crossed my mind that you didn’t get the letters.” “I’ll always cherish them,” she said through her tears. “I love you.” “I love you.” He sealed the vow with a kiss.
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Chapter Twenty “This time we’ll do it right,” Zach had said. Stacey remembered his words as she stood with her father in the vestibule of the old family church in Carson Valley. Lila reached out to twitch her gown into place. “I’ll wait here for you when the ceremony is over,” she said smiling brightly. “Then we’ll take the wedding photographs at the altar when the church empties, before heading to the reception.” “I know, Lila,” Stacey said smiling back. Hadn’t she said that to hundreds of brides before her? “Just practicing boss. Knock him dead!” She gave Stacey a thumbs-up and moved to the door, watching as the bridesmaids walked down the aisle. “I guess you know what you’re doing this time,” her father said patting her hand held in the crook of his arm. “I always knew,” Stacey said, impatient for the Wedding March to begin. She was anxious to pledge her love publicly in front of all her friends and family. Zach had known exactly how to make their start in life perfect — the wedding she’d always dreamed of. “He better not walk out again,” her father said. “He won’t. Give him a chance, Dad, he’s a good man. I trust him with all my heart.” Zach was waiting at the altar, his best man one of the men from the racing team. She’d met Phil in August when she’d flown to Belgium to watch Zach rack up the points in the race at Spa. It had been thrilling, and scary. But her faith in him had remained strong. Their team finished in the top three worldwide at the end of the season. He blamed the lack of first place on Bart’s death. Next year, he’d promised, they’d sweep the circuit. She knew she couldn’t talk him out of racing. She wouldn’t try to change him. He’d been right. They were older and wiser. She loved him as he was. As he loved her just as she was. If he wanted to race, so be it. He would hate being confined, constrained and any love he had for her would change over time if she asked that of him. No one said life would be easy. Just easier together. The familiar music started, the congregation rose to their feet and turned to look at her. Zach stepped out, as if coming to meet her when she and her father entered the sanctuary. His eyes were only for her. Stacey could scarcely see through her tears of happiness, but she focused on the one man who would be there for her from now on. No matter what, he was not leaving, he’d made that promise over and over. And she would never utter words that would make him think he should go. They’d been given a second chance. She grabbed hold with both hands. Never to let go. “Dearly beloved,” Zach said softly, just before the minister began.
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The Prince's Proposal by Carla Cassidy What happens when a regular American girl becomes engaged to a prince? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| 21| 22| Chapter One "I gave you a year to find a bride." King Michael Stanbury of Edenbourg glared at his one and only son, Nicholas. "In three weeks time that year will be up and you are no closer to marrying." "I haven?t found anyone appropriate yet," Nicholas replied. "Nonsense. You have dated women from all over the world, any one of which would have made a fine wife." Nicholas sighed. He couldn?t very well tell his father that although the women he dated were beautiful, sophisticated, and charming, he?d been looking for something more. "I thought it might be interesting if I married a woman I loved." Michael snorted with displeasure. "Love is overrated. If you are to one day be king, you can?t wait around for sentimental foolishness. If I?d had my way, I would have chosen a woman for you a long time ago, but your mother indulges you and she insisted I give you time to find your own wife." Nicholas bit back an angry retort. When his father had told him he had a year to marry, it hadn?t sounded like an indulgence, it had been a royal dictate ? as had most of his father?s words to him over the years. And as usual, Nicholas?s first instinct was to rebel. He drew a deep breath. "Father, I have tried ?" "Not enough," King Michael said. "A wife gives a man an aura of stability and if you are not married by your 30th birthday, then I will not allow you to succeed the throne." Nicholas wanted to protest the three-week deadline, tell his father it was a ridiculous ultimatum, but he knew it was useless. King Michael rose from his chair and looked at his watch. "You?d better get dressed ? the ball starts in an hour. Royalty from a dozen countries will be in attendance, surely you can find a woman that will make an appropriate princess." Without another word, the king swept out of the room. As always, after a talk with his father, frustration gnawed at Nicholas. He knew his father was right. It was time?past time that he chose a wife. He picked up his dress jacket and ran his thumb across the embroidered family crest on the lapel. Besides, he?d spent the past year searching for love and had found it elusive. His father was right. Love was nothing more than sentimental foolishness. It was time to put aside such foolishness. It was time to do his duty. Time to choose a wife. *** He knew the moment he saw her that she was the one. Prince Nicholas watched the dark-haired beauty from across the room. She stood by his cousin, Princess Serena of Wynborough, and Serena?s husband, Gabriel Morgan.
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He moved across the polished dance floor toward her. As he approached, she threw back her head and laughed at something Gabriel said and in her smile, in her rich laughter, Nicholas made up his mind. He stopped in front of the woman, bowed, and held out a hand. "May I have this dance?" Her brown eyes widened slightly as she nodded and smiled. "Are you enjoying your visit to Wynborough?" he asked, noting that she smelled as sweet as she looked. "Very much, although I?m finding things quite different here from my home in Brookville, Iowa." Again she offered him a shy smile. "I know you?re the Prince of Edenbourg, but I?m afraid I?m not exactly sure where Edenbourg is." Nicholas smiled, finding her confession charming." A long way from Wynborough. Edenbourg is in Eastern Europe." "Have you visited here often? I understand you?re Serena?s first cousin." "Actually, this is my first visit. Our families have not been close, although I enjoyed a long lunch with Serena yesterday." And throughout that lunch, Serena had spoken quite highly of her husband?s relative, Rebecca Baxter. Now Nicholas tried to remember what his cousin had said about the lovely woman he held in his arms. They spoke no more through the course of the dance. Nicholas?s father?s words rang in his ears. Time to find a bride. And why not the woman in his arms? Rebecca appealed to him more than any of the women he?d dated over the past year. That she was an American, and a commoner to boot, would irritate his father, but that only made her more desirable as far as Nicholas was concerned. Lust at first sight might make the best reason for marriage after all. When the dance ended, Nicholas escorted her over to where his father stood. The King raised an eyebrow and Nicholas nodded. So there would be no mistaking his intentions, he acted on an ancient custom. Reaching out to a nearby floral arrangement, he plucked out a flower, kissed it, and then tucked it behind Rebecca?s left ear. "May I present Rebecca Baxter." The king kissed Rebecca first on one cheek, then on the other. "May this union be blessed with many heirs," he replied in their native language, following the custom. Rebecca smiled blankly, but as the king?s words were repeated and swept around the room, a cheer went up. "What?s going on?" she asked curiously. He smiled. "My father has officially pronounced that he accepts our betrothal. You are to be my wife and the next Princess of Edenbourg." Chapter Two Rebecca stared at the devilishly handsome prince in disbelief. "I sincerely hope you?re joking," she said, surprised her voice sounded as calm as it did. Smoothly he took her by the elbow and led her toward an enormous set of French doors that allowed entry to an enclosed garden. As they made their way across the room, they were greeted with congratulatory murmurs that to Rebecca sounded colored with disbelief. He didn?t speak until they were alone on a bench amid a profusion of fragrant roses. "There is no joke. You have officially been proclaimed my intended wife, and we?ll marry in three weeks? time."
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"But, that?s crazy," Rebecca exclaimed. "I can?t marry you. We don?t even know each other." She stared at Nicholas, her heart beating wildly. Prince Nicholas Stanbury was handsome to a fault, but she also knew he had a reputation as a womanizer. His name had been linked in the tabloids with actresses and models. A different woman each week. "My mother and father didn?t meet until the day of their wedding. We have three weeks to get to know each other." He smiled, a charming smile that shot heat through her. "I am to marry by my 30th birthday or lose my right to succeed my father. In three weeks and one day, I turn 30, so I find a wife necessary." "That?s nice, but I don?t find a husband necessary," she retorted, and wondered wildly if they still beheaded recalcitrant women in this part of the world. "Besides, I don?t love you." "Marriage isn?t about love," he replied softly, his gaze not quite meeting hers. "I?m offering you what hundreds of women would sell their soul for?a fairy tale life. As my wife you?ll enjoy a beautiful castle, expensive clothing, exquisite jewels and all I ask in return is that you give me an heir." Rebecca was appalled by his cool recitation of a loveless marriage. "If there are hundreds of women who want a marriage with you and the lifestyle you?re offering, then I suggest you find one of them." She stood. The man was gorgeous, but he was obviously clueless when it came to matters of the heart. He stood as well and took her hand in his. Despite the fact she wanted nothing to do with his offer of marriage, she couldn?t halt the heat that raced up her arm at his touch. "But, I don?t want any of those other women as my wife. I want you." She pulled her hand from his. "We don?t always get everything we want." He grinned, a challenging smile that danced in the dark depths of his eyes. "I do." Chapter Three Rebecca awakened with the morning sun, but remained in bed, wondering if the events of the night before had been a fanciful dream. She felt she?d been in a dream from the moment she?d stepped off the plane in Wynborough and saw her brother-in-law, Gabriel, waiting for her. It had been four years since Rebecca?s sister, Gabriel?s wife LeAnn, had died in a tragic bank robbery gone wrong. After the funeral, Rebecca and Gabe had lost track of each other. They?d made contact again when Gabe had invited Rebecca to his and Serena?s wedding, but Rebecca had been unable to attend. Then Gabe had learned about her mother?s death and convinced her she needed a break and invited her to Wynborough for the anniversary celebration of the coronation of Serena?s father, King Phillip. Rebecca spied the flower on her nightstand, the same flower Nicholas had tucked behind her ear to proclaim their engagement. Her heart stepped up its rhythm as she thought of the handsome prince. A prince had made her his fiancée. It would be like a romantic dream, if she loved Nicholas?if he loved her. A knock on her door pulled her from her thoughts. "Come in," she called. "Good morning," Serena said as she entered. Rebecca smiled at the red-haired princess. In the brief time she?d been in Wynborough, she?d developed a friendship with Serena. "I?m not sure if it?s a good morning or not." Serena sat on the edge of the bed. "It was an exciting evening, that?s for sure." Rebecca sat up. "I was just lying here wondering if it was all a dream. Yesterday I was an unemployed schoolteacher taking her first trip outside the United States. Today I?m betrothed to a prince I don?t even
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know." She looked at Serena desperately. "How do I get out of this? I don?t want to do anything that might cause an international incident!" Serena laughed, then sobered and gazed at Rebecca thoughtfully. "If I were you, I?d go along with the engagement for several days, but tell Nicholas of your intention not to marry him. It?s important that it appears he?s the one who changes his mind. He?ll want to save face with the public." Rebecca nodded, trusting that Serena knew best how to handle issues concerning royalty. Serena stood, a worried frown etched into her forehead. "Just don?t let him hurt you. Nicholas is quite a charmer, but I don?t think his heart has ever been touched. Be careful with your own heart." Rebecca smiled. "Don?t worry about me. I?m not about to be taken in by what he?s offering." She looked at the flower on the nightstand, then back to Serena. "I?m glad Gabe found you. I?m so glad he found happiness." "I?m the one who is happy." Serena?s face positively glowed. "Gabe is my heart, my love, my very soul mate." And that?s exactly what Rebecca wanted for herself. Love. And that was the one thing Prince Nicholas wasn?t offering. Chapter Four It had surprised Nicholas when Rebecca had mentioned love. He?d once held out hope that such an emotion existed, had desperately wanted to find it, if for no other reason than to prove his father wrong. But, after spending the past year searching for love, dating an endless string of women, each of whom had left his heart cold, he?d come to realize it didn?t exist. Or at least not for someone like him. Marriages were made, as his father and mother?s had been, for a variety of pragmatic reasons, not because of some wild, crazy magic that might exist between two people. As Nicholas sat in Gabe and Serena?s living room waiting for Rebecca to join him, he thought of what he knew about Rebecca. She was 25 years old, an unemployed schoolteacher who had spent the past year caring for an ailing mother who had passed away a month before. She had one charge card she rarely used, a seven-year-old car, and owned no property. Her reputation was sterling and he knew many of his countrymen would find her modest background charming. He knew everything about her that could be learned through public records, but there was much he didn?t know, and he was surprised to realize he was looking forward to spending time with her. He smiled as he recalled her laughter. He hoped he could make her laugh today. "Rebecca will be down in just a minute," Gabe said as he reentered the room. "Good. I?m looking forward to spending the day in her company." He offered Gabe a friendly smile, but the tall, dark-haired man didn?t return it. "You know Rebecca is my sister-in-law from my previous marriage," Gabe said. Nicholas nodded. He knew Gabe?s first wife had died tragically and after her death, Gabe had come to Wynborough and gotten a position as a royal bodyguard. According to the rumors, Serena and Gabe had fallen madly in love. But, Nicholas now suspected Serena?s father, King Phillip, had made some sort of a business arrangement with the bodyguard. Nicholas wasn?t sure what the king had promised Gabe, but he knew King Phillip was pleased to have his willful, adventurous daughter safely married. That was how royal marriages worked, he reminded himself.
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"I?m very fond of Rebecca," Gabe continued. "And I?m sure I?ll grow fond of her as well," Nicholas replied, noting that his answer didn?t ease the tension that emanated from Gabe. "I don?t want her hurt." Gabe glared at him. "I have no intention of hurting her. I?m marrying her, not burying her," Nicholas protested with an uncomfortable laugh. He didn?t understand why Gabe wasn?t thrilled that Nicholas was offering Rebecca a dream life as a princess. "I?m just warning you," Gabe returned, his gaze intent on Nicholas. "If you hurt her, you won?t have to worry about succession rights or anything else." Nicholas stared at Gabe in surprise and wondered for the first time if perhaps he hadn?t gotten in over his head with the lovely Rebecca Baxter. Chapter Five "I thought we?d go to the marketplace and do some shopping," Nicholas said to Rebecca. They were seated side-by-side in the back of a luxury limo. Nicholas smiled at her. "I know how you women love to shop." "Actually, I hate it," Rebecca replied perversely. She was more nervous than she could remember. Nicholas was even more handsome this morning than he?d been last night, and she?d have to be a stick of wood not to be affected by the force of his smile. I shouldn?t even be here, she thought. I shouldn?t spend a single moment perpetuating this craziness. But, if she were honest with herself, she would admit it was a heady experience. It was hard to believe that after a year of taking care of her mother, her first date was with a prince who?d proposed to her. "I don?t think I?ve ever met a woman who hated to shop," Nicholas said, pulling Rebecca from her thoughts. "Perhaps you?ve been seeing the wrong kind of women." He laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, deep-bodied and genuine. "Perhaps you?re right," he agreed. "Still, I?d like to buy you something special to wear tomorrow night. Something to commemorate our engagement." "Tomorrow night?" "The party at the Woodtowers? house. I understand the Woodtowers throw wonderful parties." Rebecca nodded, remembering Gabe mentioning something about the party. "Please, I?d rather you not buy me anything. I?m only going along with this engagement business for the next week so you can then tell everyone I was entirely inappropriate." "But, I don?t find you inappropriate." "You will," she said firmly. She gazed at him thoughtfully. "Why would your father give you a deadline to marry?" "Because my father likes to control people and things," he replied. "And I will adhere to the deadline because I?ll do whatever I must do for Edenbourg."
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Their conversation ended as the limo pulled up at the curb in front of the open-air market. Within minutes, Rebecca was walking beside Nicholas through the marketplace. She had a feeling Nicholas was not only handsome, but headstrong as well, and it was obvious he?d paid no mind to her warning that he needed to find another fiancée. She certainly didn?t want to be responsible for him losing the right to one day be king of his country, but she wasn?t willing to sacrifice herself and her own dreams in the process. "Prince Nicholas!" Both Nicholas and Rebecca turned to see a man who was obviously from the press advancing on them. "Could we get a picture of you and your intended?" "No," Rebecca exclaimed in horror. She didn?t want any part of this mock engagement chronicled in the daily news. "Certainly," Nicholas replied at the same time. "How about a picture of our first kiss." Before Rebecca could protest or knew what was happening, Nicholas?s lips descended toward hers. Chapter Six Nicholas had intended to give her only a brief, courtly kiss, but the moment his mouth claimed hers, he was swept into a maelstrom of unexpected desire. She tasted of honeyed sweetness and the floral scent she wore eddied in his head. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, vaguely aware of the reporter scurrying away. Rebecca?s brown eyes were luminous, and Nicholas wondered how they would look while he made love to her. The thought stirred his blood. "You shouldn?t have done that," she said, her cheeks a becoming pink. "Actually, I was just considering repeating the experience," he replied. She took a step away from him, her eyes flashing with a touch of anger. "Don?t you dare," she exclaimed. "You?re only making things worse. I am not marrying you." Quickly he followed behind her as she walked toward a flower booth. She intrigued him. It had never entered his mind that any woman wouldn?t jump at the opportunity he was offering ? the opportunity to eventually be queen of a beautiful kingdom. He knew without a doubt that any of the women he?d dated before would have married him in an instant. So, what was going on with Rebecca Baxter? Was she simply playing hard to get, or did she truly intend to turn him down? He hurried to catch up with her, noting how pretty she looked as she bent forward to smell a brilliant red blossom. "You like flowers?" he asked. "I love them." She flashed him a smile that created a pleasant warmth in his stomach. "I particularly love gardening." They walked on, leaving the flower display behind. "What else do you like?" he asked curiously.
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"I like all kinds of things: pepperoni pizza, working with children, watching a sunset." Her brown eyes gazed at him curiously. "What about you?" He frowned thoughtfully. "I like touring my country, visiting with the people, and representing their interests to the rest of the world." He thought of the official dinners, the formal dances and meetings that took up much of his time. He spent a lot of time dating, feeding the tabloids and scandal sheets because he knew it angered his father, but he couldn?t actually say he enjoyed it. "It isn?t necessary that we enjoy the same things," he said firmly. She eyed him in disbelief. "But, it is." She shook her head and continued, "and this is a pointless conversation because I have no intention of marrying you. One week, Nicholas, I told you I?d go along with this farce for one week, then you will tell the press I was inappropriate and you can choose another woman to be your bride." She turned and walked away. Nicholas hurried after her, wondering how in the devil he could change her mind in seven days, wondering why it was suddenly so important that he change her mind! Chapter Seven Flowers. They were everywhere. Huge arrangements that filled Rebecca?s bedroom and spilled out into the hallway. And still the deliveries came, and with every delivery Rebecca?s anger grew. Nicholas had returned her to Gabe and Serena?s by midafternoon, and the floral deliveries had started almost immediately. "A bit extravagant, but sweet," Serena exclaimed as she surveyed the floral wonderland of Rebecca?s bedroom. "Sweet?" Rebecca stared at Serena in disbelief. "The man is a lunatic. He?s obviously trying to buy me and it?s not going to work. He doesn?t understand the meaning of no, has probably never been told no in his life. He?s extravagant and spoiled." "The spoiled prince is waiting for you in the foyer," Serena announced with a grin. "Good. I intend to give him a piece of my mind." Rebecca left her bedroom, anger coursing through her. Thank goodness she hadn?t told him she loved animals, otherwise there would be an entire zoo in Gabe and Serena?s house. Her anger dissipated somewhat as she stepped into the foyer and Nicholas greeted her with a wide grin. He looked so handsome, with his eyes gleaming with pleasure and his lips curved into an expectant smile. "You are pleased?" "No, I?m not pleased," she replied curtly. "But, you said you liked flowers." His smile fell away, replaced by bewilderment. Rebecca was unable to sustain her anger as she realized he had truly meant to please her and was clueless about why she wasn?t delighted. "Nicholas, I said I love flowers, but I also said I love gardening." "When we are married, you may spend all your free time gardening," he exclaimed. Rebecca sighed. "We come from two very different worlds. I?d rather be a schoolteacher in Iowa than a princess in a loveless marriage."
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"Perhaps I should have sent jewelry instead of flowers," he mused, more to himself than to her. "I thought you wanted flowers." He didn?t get it. He simply didn?t get it, Rebecca realized. He was so accustomed to buying what he wanted, getting what he desired. He didn?t understand she could only be won over with love. "Come with me," she said suddenly and grabbed him by the hand. "Where are we going?" he asked as she pulled him out the front door. "The flowers you sent showed me a lot about your world. Now I?m going to show you a little about mine." Chapter Eight Nicholas allowed himself to be led, enjoying the warmth of her hand in his and intrigued as to where she was taking him. He didn?t understand why the flowers hadn?t pleased her. The huge arrangements certainly would have pleased any of the women he?d dated in the past. As Rebecca led him around the side of the country manor, Nicholas noted how the sunlight danced in her dark hair, causing reddish highlights to flirt and dance. His fingers itched to wrap themselves in the silky strands. She took him to the greenhouse and as they entered, she released his hand and gestured to the plants and flowers surrounding them. "This is the kind of flower I like?growing, living flowers." She tilted her head and gazed at him curiously. "Have you ever planted a flower?" She looked so charming that he wished he could tell her yes, but he wasn?t going to lie. "Never. We have gardeners for that." "There is nothing better than getting your hands dirty." She grabbed a spade and knelt down at a bed where pots of various flowers sat waiting to be planted. For a moment he stared at her in surprise, then he knelt beside her and within minutes they were covered with mud to their elbows. Nicholas had to admit there was something sensuous and evocative about planting, but he wasn?t sure if it was the warmth and texture of the mud on his fingers, or the utter pleasure that lit Rebecca?s features. "I?ve always believed marriage is sort of like planting flowers. It isn?t enough just to plant them. To flourish, you have to nurture them." He considered her words with interest. "I might have believed that once, but now I know marriage is simply a duty that must be fulfilled." She gazed at him sadly. "And if that?s why you marry, then you will never know real happiness." Nicholas found the conversation strangely unsettling. She seemed to sense his discomfort and laughed suddenly. It had been that wonderfully musical laugh and the sparkle in her eyes that had made him choose her, and he found himself grinning at her in response. "What is so funny?" "If only your subjects could see you now. His Royal Highness with his face streaked with mud."
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"Where?" Without thinking he touched his face with his muddy fingers. Again she laughed, and the music of her laughter soared through him. "Your face is dirty, too." He reached out and smeared mud across her cheek. She looked at him in astonishment, then dissolved into laughter. Nicholas didn?t know anything about love, but at that moment all he knew was that he wanted nothing more than to gather Rebecca into his arms and kiss her with the passion that was growing inside him. He decided not to fight the impulse, but rather to give in to it. Chapter Nine It had been easy for Rebecca to dismiss Nicholas?s first kiss. There had been a reporter with a camera nearby and she had known he was kissing her for publicity purposes. The moment his lips touched hers, she knew this kiss was far different. There was nobody in the greenhouse except the two of them, no reason for him to kiss her other than because he wanted to. His mouth plied hers with intense heat as he pulled her tightly against his hard-muscled chest. Rebecca?s head spun dizzily beneath the strong sensual assault and although she knew she should step away, her body refused to listen to the mental command. She needed the kiss to stop, needed to catch her breath and regain her equilibrium, yet she wanted the kiss to last forever. He deepened the kiss with his tongue and at the same time his arms pulled her even closer against him. She was aware of a thundering heartbeat, but couldn?t discern if it was his heart or her own. His hands moved up her back and tangled in her hair and Rebecca knew it had to be her heart pounding so loudly as she responded to her own growing need. Being held in his arms, being kissed by him made her heart?s desire seem attainable. And her heart?s desire had nothing to do with becoming a princess or a queen, but rather with loving and being loved by a very special man. Rebecca felt Nicholas?s reluctance as he ended the kiss. As he gazed at her, his dark eyes sparked with the flames of desire and Rebecca felt the fire in the pit of her stomach. "I hope it takes a while for you to give me an heir," he whispered. "The longer it takes, the more we?ll have to try." His words effectively doused the fire within Rebecca, reminding her exactly what he was offering her in marriage and what he would expect in return. She opened her mouth to protest his statement, to remind him that she had no intention of marrying him, but he held up a hand to still her. He smiled and touched her cheek softly. "I cannot have a serious conversation with a woman who has mud smeared on her cheek. Come," he grabbed her hand. "Let?s go clean up." With his hand around hers, and her cheek burning from the tenderness of his touch, Rebecca realized she had to be strong. She?d promised him a week of the mock engagement and she would give him a week. But, she had to be careful because when he gifted her with his warm, charming smile, when he touched her in the most simple fashion, he stirred emotions Rebecca knew could only lead to her own heartache.
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Chapter Ten "That blonde over there would make a beautiful princess," Rebecca whispered to Nicholas. The Woodtowers? ball was in full swing. Charles and Edie Woodtower were personal friends of King Phillip and Queen Gabriella and no expense had been spared in this celebratory party thrown in their honor. The ballroom itself was splendidly opulent, with gilded molding and enormous crystal chandeliers. An orchestra played from its position on a large balcony, the soft music providing a pleasant backdrop without hindering conversation. She and Nicholas were in a small alcove that provided an excellent view of the ballroom. Nicholas frowned. "I?ve never liked blondes." Rebecca grinned at him. "That?s not what the Daily Reader says about you." Nicholas laughed. "You mustn?t believe everything you read in the papers." "They call you the Playboy Prince." There was a touch of censure in her voice and her dark eyes gazed at him soberly. "I enjoy being seen with beautiful women." He shrugged, slightly embarrassed by the playboy image he?d cultivated as part of a perverse rebellion against his father. He smiled at her. "And tonight is no exception. You look stunning." And she did. Clad in a cream-colored gown that complemented her dark coloring and displayed her curves, she outshone every other woman in the room. Her hair was pulled up, exposing a long, graceful neck, and her makeup subtly enhanced her pretty features. She blushed at his compliment. "Thank you." As the blush faded from her cheeks, her gaze swept the room once again. "If you don?t like blondes, there are several attractive brunettes here and I?m sure any one of them would make an appropriate princess for you." "It is completely inappropriate for my fiancée to be matchmaking for me," Nicholas replied. "Somebody has to do it." She studied him and wondered if she was being foolish in resisting his appeal. "You have less than three weeks to marry." "I will marry before my birthday," he assured her. "I have spent my whole life being groomed to be the next King of Edenbourg. That is my destiny." "Then why haven?t you married before now?" She gazed at him curiously. "You said your father gave you a year. Why have you waited until the last possible moment?" Nicholas hesitated before replying, unsure what the real answer was. He knew part of the reason had been because he hadn?t wanted to believe his father would really force his hand in such a manner. Even more he didn?t want to confess that he?d been searching for something?something he couldn?t define. Whatever it had been, he hadn?t found it. He smiled. "I waited because I hadn?t yet met you." Rebecca shook her head and eyed him in disbelief. "I think instead of the Playboy Prince, the papers should have dubbed you the Prince of Baloney." He looked at her in surprise. He couldn?t remember a woman ever talking to him so irreverently.
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"What about dreams, Nicholas?" she asked. "What are your dreams for yourself?" "I want to be a fair and merciful king. I dream of peace and prosperity for Edenbourg." Her rich, caramel-colored eyes gazed at him thoughtfully. "Those are the dreams of a king. What are your dreams, your hopes for yourself as a man?" Nicholas frowned thoughtfully. Dreams? His frown deepened. "I don?t know," he finally replied. "I don?t know that I have any." Rebecca nodded, as if his answer didn?t surprise her. "Aside from the fact that we don?t love each other, we are fundamentally far too different to make a successful marriage. I could never marry a man who has no dreams, and that?s one of the reasons I would never marry you." Chapter Eleven "There are many successful marriages where the husband and wife are fundamentally different and love isn?t the driving force," Nicholas protested. "Name some," she demanded. He grinned, finding the sparkle in her eyes and the challenge in her tone intoxicating. "My own parents are a perfect example. Theirs was an arranged marriage for political reasons and they?ve been together for over 30 years. They have their own interests and their own responsibilities and friends and it has worked for them." She frowned, an adorable wrinkle appearing across her forehead. "Shall we dance?" he asked as the orchestra began to play. She nodded her assent and he took her hand and led her toward the dance floor. "There?s also Victor and Sara Thorton," he said as he embraced her and they began to move to the rhythm of the music. She fit perfectly in his arms and her sweet fragrance filled his senses. He couldn?t remember the last time he?d been so physically attracted to a woman. Rebecca wasn?t the prettiest woman he?d ever been involved with, but something about her drew him as no other woman had ever done. "You were telling me about the Thortons," she said, pulling him from his inner contemplation. "Yes, he?s the Grand Duke of Thortonburg and he married Sara years ago for duty rather than for love. I?d introduce you to them, but they left rather abruptly from the coronation celebration. There are rumors of trouble in Thortonburg. Anyway, both of those marriage have been tremendously successful." "But, Nicholas, I don?t want a successful marriage. I want a marriage like my parents had," she said. Her eyes took on a dreamy cast and Nicholas tightened his arm around her back, wishing it was he that evoked such a look on her face. "They were happy?" he asked. "More than happy. They were more than just husband and wife. They were best friends, passionate lovers, and utterly devoted to one another. They were truly soul mates." "And that?s your dream?" She nodded, her eyes still luminous. "I want my husband to be my lover, my companion, the keeper of my dreams, and my solace when dreams fall through. I want a family of happy children raised with laughter and
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love, children who grow up seeing the love and respect their parents have for one another." She blushed. "I?m sorry, I guess I?m rambling." "Don?t apologize," he protested. For a few moments they continued to dance without speaking. Nicholas pulled her closer against him, wondering how it was possible he?d begun the night with no dreams and now wanted her dreams to be his. Chapter Twelve "Tell me more about your parents," Nicholas said later in the evening as he and Rebecca stepped out onto a balcony for a breath of fresh air. Rebecca smiled as memories assailed her. "Every anniversary, my father would buy my mother a little trinket from a different country. One year it was a package of Russian tea, the next a bell from Holland." "My mother always gets a new diamond of some sort from my father on their anniversary," Nicholas said. Rebecca smiled, trying to ignore how utterly handsome Nicholas looked in his formal dress. "Daddy couldn?t afford diamonds. But, he?d promised mother the world and so each year he gave her a memento of some far away place." "What did your mother and father do for a living?" Rebecca sat on one of the wrought-iron benches that decorated the balcony. Nicholas joined her, his thigh warm against hers as they sat side by side. "Daddy was a simple man, a car mechanic and mother was a schoolteacher. He met her when she took her car in for repairs and three months later they married. Their love for each other filled our house every day." Nicholas frowned. "I know my parents respect one another, but they spend very little time together." "When I marry, my husband and I will spend lots of time together," Rebecca said fervently. "We?ll share meals and our bed, we?ll share our hopes and dreams. We?ll even argue occasionally, but we?ll always make up and our love will simply grow stronger with each passing day." She looked at Nicholas. "That?s what I want from marriage, what my parents had." She felt the burn of unexpected tears. "And had they lived long enough, my father would have given my mother the entire world." She swiped the tears that had begun to fall. "I?m sorry," she said and forced a small laugh to hide her embarrassment. "Don?t be," he murmured softly. "It?s just?my father died a year ago of a heart attack, and before I had a chance to mourn for him, my mother became terminally ill. She passed away a month ago." To her horror, as much as she tried to suppress her tears, it was useless. He gathered her into his arms and she went willingly, grief for her parents welling up inside her. She pressed her face into the front of his shirt as he stroked her hair tenderly. Even as the tears flowed, she was intensely aware of the strength of Nicholas?s arms around her, the attractive masculine scent of him. "Sweet Rebecca," he murmured. "Try not to grieve for your parents. Just think, now they have all of eternity to spend together." In his sweet words, in the tenderness of his embrace, Rebecca knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She was vulnerable to the fantasy he held out. After the dreadful year she?d just spent, it would be far too easy to fall into the fairy tale of becoming a princess in an exotic, foreign land.
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Yes, she was vulnerable, and if she weren?t very careful, she?d fall in love with the Playboy Prince who appeared to know nothing about love. Chapter Thirteen "You like children." It was a statement rather than a question. Nicholas and Rebecca had been walking in one of the lovely parks Wynborough had to offer and Rebecca had paused to watch a group of children playing on the swings. "I love children," she replied. "That?s why I became a teacher. When I was younger I told my mother I wanted at least a dozen of my own." "A dozen? Then you definitely would need a castle to hold all of them." She laughed, that musical laughter that affected Nicholas deep in the pit of his stomach. "Or an old two-story rambling farmhouse." Nicholas watched her as she looked at the playing children. He found her face utterly fascinating, full of expression and animation. Two nights ago he?d held her while she cried over her parents and her grief had resonated deep inside him. Since that night they seemed to have become more comfortable with one another. She turned to him suddenly. "If you weren?t a prince, what would you want to be?" she asked. They continued their stroll through the tree-lined sidewalks of the park. "Oh, I don?t know." He grinned at her. "Perhaps a farmer with a two-story rambling farmhouse perfect for a dozen children." She nudged him in his side and laughed. "I?m being serious." This was one of the things he enjoyed about her. She challenged him, made him think of things he?d never thought of before. "I don?t know?it?s difficult to think about options when you?ve been raised all your life for the role you will undertake." He smiled at her. "What about you? What would you have been if not a teacher?" She shrugged and a light breeze caused her hair to dance bewitchingly on her shoulders. "Maybe a social worker. I like people as much as I like children." "And that will make you a perfect princess," Nicholas said. "Nicholas, the only reason I agreed to spend the last few days with you is because Serena told me it would be better if you made an announcement to the press that you?d dumped me instead of me dumping you." "But, I?m not dumping you." "Nicholas?you aren?t listening to me." Her eyes flashed with anger. "You have a temper," he said in surprise. "Yes, I have a temper, and I probably sometimes chew with my mouth open. I eat crackers in bed and if there are more than two forks next to my plate I don?t know for sure which one to use. Face it, Nicholas, I?m not princess material." For the first time Nicholas wondered if he?d jumped too fast, if maybe she was right and this was all a big mistake.
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Had he only chosen her because of the fight with his father? Because he knew his father would disapprove but would be unable to do anything about it? "Ah, I see I?ve made you think." She laughed suddenly and in that sweet sound of her laughter, in the sparkle of her eyes, any doubts Nicholas momentarily entertained disappeared. "I?m only wondering how difficult it is to sleep on cracker crumbs," he replied. She started to speak again, but he stilled her by placing a finger on her lips. "You know, most women would think what I?m offering you is a magical fairy tale." "But I know better," she replied. "It isn?t a fairy tale at all." "Why not?" he asked curiously. Her eyes lost their sparkle of laughter and instead became somber. "Because everyone knows fairy tales always end happily-ever-after and we aren?t going to have that ending." Chapter Fourteen "So, today is the last day you?re officially Prince Nicholas Stanbury?s fiancée," Serena observed. She and Rebecca were seated at the breakfast table, lingering over coffee. Rebecca nodded. "I gave him a week and the time is up.That gives him two weeks before his birthday to find an appropriate bride." Rebecca tried to ignore the ache that shot through her heart. The past week had been like a dream. She and Nicholas had spent nearly every waking hour together. They?d taken long drives into the country, eaten at wonderful restaurants, and walked through Wynborough?s many parks. Rebecca had accepted each day as an exciting gift, like a reward after a particularly heartrending, difficult year. It had been easy to get caught up in the fantasy of it all. But now it was time for a dose of reality. And reality was that Nicholas didn?t love her. With each day that passed, Nicholas seemed to open up a bit more, revealing pieces of himself that she suspected he?d never shared with anyone else. As he?d spoken of his childhood, she?d gotten the impression of a spoiled, indulged, but lonely, child who saw more of his nursemaid than of his parents. It was no wonder Nicholas didn?t understand love. He?d had plenty of duty, of responsibility, plenty of pomp and circumstance in his life, but very little love. "So, what do you have planned for your swan song as Nicholas?s intended bride?" Serena asked, pulling Rebecca from her thoughts. "I?m not sure. Nicholas told me to be ready at noon and that he had a surprise for me." Rebecca took a sip of her coffee, then sighed. "It?s been a wonderful week." "It doesn?t have to end," Serena said. "Of course it does," Rebecca countered. She wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug, then looked at Serena once again. "I?m afraid if I don?t stop seeing him then I?m going to do something incredibly stupid." "Like what?" "Like fall in love with him," Rebecca whispered.
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"Would that be so terrible?" "Yes." Once again Rebecca focused her gaze on the coffee in her mug. "Nicholas is charming, and sexy and handsome. He?s obviously well educated and has a wonderful sense of humor." "But??" Serena prompted. "But, he didn?t choose me as his fiancée because he loves me. I?m not even sure he?s capable of loving the way I want to be loved." Rebecca reached across the expanse of table and grabbed Serena?s hand. "I want a man who looks at me like Gabe looks at you," she exclaimed fervently. "I need a man who needs me, one who wants to share my thoughts, my life, my dreams." "So, what are you going to do?" Serena asked softly and squeezed Rebecca?s hand. "Tell Nicholas goodbye." The words caused an ache to sweep through Rebecca. Chapter Fifteen "Nicholas, we agreed that I?d see you for a week and now the week is over," Rebecca said. She looked lovely, clad in a caramel-colored silk dress that perfectly matched her eyes. Tiny gold studs shone in her ears and her hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Nicholas?s fingers itched with the desire to tangle in its glorious silkiness. He longed to capture one of her ear lobes in his mouth, then rain kisses down the length of her gorgeous neck. He tried desperately to focus on the conversation and not his growing desire for her. "But, I don?t want to stop seeing you," he protested, wondering why the right words came so easily to him in political matters, but with so much difficulty when dealing with Rebecca. He sounded like a petulant child, and that irritated him. The two of them were seated in a private dining room in a popular but expensive restaurant. The room was conducive to romance, complete with fresh-cut flowers, candlelight, and soft music wafting in the air. When Rebecca had told Nicholas she only meant to be his fiancée for a week, he?d been confident by the time the week was over he would have changed her mind. Now, for the first time, he felt an edge of panic rise up inside him as he realized she apparently intended to stick to her word. "I want to spend more time with you." The moment the words left his lips, he recognized the truth in them. "We?d only be putting off the inevitable," she replied, her gaze refusing to meet his. For a moment an alien helplessness swept through him. He could command the cook fix his favorite meal; he could demand his housekeeper repolish a spoon or glass, but he could neither command nor demand that Rebecca give him more time. "Nicholas, I know nothing about your country, nothing about the customs, the people of Edenbourg." He smiled teasingly, wishing to pull an answering smile from her. "Then, I?ll get you some travel brochures to study." She sighed, obviously irritated by his response.
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He reached across the table and took her hand. He loved her hands?so soft and feminine. Strange, that he couldn?t remember the hands of any other woman he?d dated. "Rebecca, this past week with you has only proven to me how well a marriage between us would work. We are well suited to one another. You please me," he confessed. She pulled her hand from his. "But have you considered that you might not please me?" He looked at her in stunned surprise. "You don?t like me?" Again she sighed, her gaze not meeting his. "I like you just fine." She looked at him. "But I won?t love you." "That isn?t necessary for a successful marriage between us." Although he said the words, he was surprised to feel a renewed sense of panic well up inside him. He reached into his pocket, knowing that if anything could make her change her mind, his gift would. He withdrew a small, blue velvet box. Her eyes widened and he saw the protest forming on her lips. He quickly opened the jewelry box and exposed what it contained. Chapter Sixteen "Oh, Nicholas," she said breathlessly. "I?ve never seen a diamond that big before." Nicholas relaxed as he saw the awe on her face. It was one thing to turn down a proposal, quite another to turn away from a flawless four-carat diamond engagement ring. Rebecca wasn?t so very different from the other women he?d dated after all. He took the ring from its velvety bed and slipped it onto her finger. "A perfect fit. It?s an omen." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her. "Rebecca, please wear the ring, be my bride." His heart thudded with a strange, unnatural rhythm and he realized he was holding his breath as he waited for her reply. She held her hand up, allowing the diamond to catch and reflect the candlelight. It sparkled and glowed as if with promise and Nicholas felt that promise in his heart. She would say yes. She had to say yes. His heart plunged to the floor when she shook her head and pulled the ring from her finger. "It?s gorgeous. A ring for a princess, but I can?t wear this and we aren?t getting married." He watched dully as she placed the ring back into the velvet box. Funny, he was filled with a strange elation that she was different from all the others. But, the elation was tempered with alarm as he thought of living his life with anyone else. He couldn?t imagine any other woman as his wife. He wanted?he needed Rebecca. "I don?t want to play games, Rebecca. Forget I?m a prince, forget about my father?s ultimatum." He leaned forward and gazed at her. "Let?s spend a week together just as a man and a woman enjoying one another?s company. No commitments, no pressures of any kind." He saw the mulish stubbornness on her features and searched inside himself to find the right words to change her mind. "Rebecca, in two weeks? time I return to Edenbourg and continue my duties as heir to the throne. The position will bring me tremendous joy, but with that joy comes pressures and enormous responsibilities. I?d like to spend a week, not as a future king, but rather simply as a man. I?d like to spend that time with the woman of my choice and that woman is you." He saw her indecision and pressed his advantage. "Look, I?m putting the ring away and I won?t say another word about marriage." He tucked the velvet box back into his pocket.
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"Oh, Nicholas, you make it very difficult for a woman to tell you no," she finally said. "Then don?t say no." "This is probably the most stupid mistake I?ve ever made in my life," she murmured. "Okay?one more week." Nicholas released a sigh of relief. One more week. Seven days. He had seven days to figure out the way to Rebecca?s heart. Chapter Seventeen Rebecca knew that agreeing to continue to see Nicholas for another week was utter madness, but she didn?t have the strength to deny herself the pleasure. Every single day for the next week, she savored the moments, capturing the minutes in her memory, etching them in her mind and in her heart. Nicholas introduced her to lobster Newburg and she introduced him to pepperoni pizza. He took her horseback riding and she took him bowling. They took carriage rides and visited museums. And each evening when he returned her to Gabe and Serena?s house, he kissed her until she was dizzy with desire, aching with want. She told herself that she?d have wonderful stories to tell her friends back in Iowa?about the two weeks she?d been engaged to Prince Nicholas Stanbury of Edenbourg. And at night, in her lonely bed, she?d have plenty of tears to shed over the future king?the man she loved. She and Nicholas now stood at Gabe and Serena?s front door. It was almost midnight and the two weeks were up. The moon overhead was full, spilling illumination that played on Nicholas?s handsome features. "Rebecca, I know I promised I wouldn?t speak of it again, but I lied." His gaze bore into hers intently. "Marry me." She shook her head. "I won?t." "Why not?" His voice held a soft appeal. She couldn?t tell him she wouldn?t marry him because she loved him. If he knew, it would give him power over her and she was afraid he?d use that power to convince her to marry him. And that would be the mistake of a lifetime. She answered his question with a question of her own. "Why did you choose me?that night at the ball? The room was filled with dozens of women. Why me?" For a long moment, he stared up at the moon, as if the answer to her question might be found in the silvery globe. "I?m not sure." He looked at her again and in his eyes she saw confusion. "When I looked at you, something happened. The moment I saw you laugh I knew without doubt that you were the one I wanted." He pulled her into his embrace. "And nothing has changed my mind since that night." His lips touched hers in a kiss of aching sweetness. She held herself stiff, unyielding, but as his tongue touched the tip of hers, and he pulled her more tightly against him, she gave in to the magic, the passion.
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"Rebecca?Rebecca?" he murmured as his lips left her mouth and traveled down the length of her neck. His light, nipping kisses sparked flames of heat wherever his mouth touched. "I want you. I need you. Marry me." Reluctantly, heart aching, she stepped from his embrace. "Goodbye Nicholas." She grabbed the doorknob to enter the house. "Rebecca, wait?" In the moonlight that spilled down she turned back to face him, surprised to see what looked like sheer panic in his gaze. "If you don?t marry me, then I won?t marry at all. I will forfeit my right to succeed the throne of my country." Chapter Eighteen Rebecca stared at him in horror. "Don?t talk nonsense," she replied. "It isn?t nonsense. If you don?t marry me then there will be no wedding and I will never be King of Edenbourg." He looked perfectly serious, but Rebecca refused to believe his words. "I don?t believe you. You?ve been groomed to be king all your life. If you don?t marry, your father will back down on his ultimatum." He smiled without humor. "You don?t know my father. He would rather stripe me of my right to succeed than give in on one of his ultimatums." He drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his thick dark hair. "Two weeks ago any woman would have satisfied me. I had resigned myself to a marriage where my wife and I would live rather separately. We would be polite and civil to one another. She would give me the required heir and I would give her jewelry and expensive houses to keep her happy." He placed his hands on Rebecca?s shoulders, his gaze capturing hers with intensity. "These last two weeks with you have shown me what marriage can be. I like being with you, talking to you. We could have a marriage of companionship, of laughter?" his eyes darkened "?of passion." Oh, it would be so easy to fall into the promise of his words, to give her fairy tale a happy ending, but there was one thing Nicholas hadn?t said. He hadn?t said the marriage would be filled with love. He hadn?t said he loved her. "Goodbye, Nicholas." Before he could say another word, before he could say anything, do anything to weaken her resolve, she slipped through the door and left him standing on the porch. She was grateful Gabe and Serena were in bed and she managed to get to her room before the hot tears flowed. This trip to Wynborough had been intended to be a lighthearted vacation after the year taking care of her mother and an opportunity to renew the bonds of family with Gabe. It wasn?t supposed to be about heartache. She undressed and got into bed, tears still tracking down her cheeks. Nicholas. Her heart cried out his name. It would be so easy to fall into the fantasy, allow herself to become his bride. But she was so afraid she?d be sacrificing her own dreams of love in the process. Loving Nicholas simply wasn?t enough if he didn?t love her. Swiping the tears from her cheeks, she rolled over on her back and stared at the moonlight patterns that splashed the ceiling.
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"If you don?t marry me then there will be no wedding and I will never be King of Edenbourg." His words haunted her. Surely he?d been bluffing. By tomorrow?the next day at the latest, there would be a news story announcing Nicholas?s new fiancée. "And they lived not happily ever after," Rebecca whispered, then turned her head into her pillow and wept for what would never be. Chapter Nineteen "Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked Nicholas for the second time. "Not at the moment. I?m waiting for somebody," Nicholas replied. The waitress, a blonde with breasts that nearly spilled out of her low-cut uniform smiled saucily. "Sometimes we have things that aren?t on the menu." She winked and slid a piece of scrap paper toward him. "My phone number?just in case you want to order à la carte." Nicholas picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball. He wasn?t interested. He wasn?t interested in anyone except Rebecca. He took a sip of his wine and sighed in relief as he saw Gabe approach the secluded table. He half rose, but Gabe motioned him down as he slid into the chair opposite Nicholas. "Nicholas." Gabe nodded a greeting. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me," Nicholas said. "I?m not sure why I?m here," Gabe confessed. "But I think I have an idea." "Rebecca," Nicholas replied, as if that said it all. Gabe nodded. "That?s what I thought." "It?s been two days since I?ve seen her?spoken with her. I thought it best if I give her some time to think." "And what does this have to do with me?" Gabe asked. "I need help," Nicholas confessed. "I need to convince Rebecca to marry me." He twisted his napkin between his fingers. "You know Rebecca ? tell me what I need to do." The waitress appeared at their table. Gabe ordered a meal, but Nicholas waved her away. "I?m not hungry," he said. "No appetite?" Gabe?s dark brows rose. "Not sleeping well? Having difficulty focusing?" Nicholas looked at him in amazement. "Yes, all those. How did you know?" Gabe grinned. "I?ve been there. It?s called love, Nicholas." "Love." Wonder flowed through Nicholas. But of course. Love for Rebecca echoed in every chamber of his heart, flowed vibrantly through his veins. He loved Rebecca Baxter and he didn?t know what to do about it. He leaned forward. "Gabe, you?ve got to help me. Make her marry me. I need her."
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"I can?t make Rebecca do anything," Gabe protested. "Have you told her how you feel?" "I told her I didn?t want to marry anyone else. I told her we would have a good marriage." Nicholas frowned. "I don?t know what else to say to her." "Have you told her you love her?" Nicholas twisted the napkin once again. "No." He frowned thoughtfully. He said those words a hundred times in his past to a hundred women because he?d known it was what they wanted to hear. But, there had never been any real emotion behind the words. Again Gabe smiled. "Women are funny creatures, Nicholas. They don?t want implied. They need to hear the words." "I hadn?t said those words to her because my feelings for her transcend those simple three words." Again wonder raced through Nicholas. He?d been searching for love a long time ? all the women he?d dated, all the relationships he?d had. But, it had remained elusive. And when he?d given up the notion, decided it was a foolish sentiment, it had reared up and slapped him in the face. "I love her," he said aloud and looked at Gabe in astonishment. He stood, unable to sit another minute. "I?m sorry?I?ve got to go." Gabe grinned. "I figured as much. Go on." Nicholas raced from the restaurant, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt more alive than he?d ever felt in his life, and his heart ached with love for Rebecca. It wasn?t until he was halfway to Gabe and Serena?s house that a dreadful thought struck him. He loved Rebecca, but what if she didn?t love him? Chapter Twenty "Rebecca, Nicholas is here." Serena spoke from the doorway to Rebecca?s bedroom. An arrow of pleasure swept through Rebecca, but it left a spasm of pain in its wake. She didn?t want to see Nicholas, didn?t want to have the same arguments about marriage that had so often marked their days spent together. "Rebecca?" "Yes, I?ll speak with him," she said. She at least owed him that, she told herself. She found him waiting for her in the living room. When she stepped into the room, he advanced toward her, arms outstretched as if to embrace her. She held up her hands to halt his progress. "Why are you here? What do you want, Nicholas?" Drat him for looking so achingly handsome and drat him for renewing her heartache with his mere presence. "I want you," he replied.
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"We?ve been through all that," Rebecca replied wearily. "We?ve talked this subject to death and there is nothing left to say. Nothing is going to change my mind. You have four days?you should be making arrangements for your wedding." Each and every word shot painful arrows through her heart. "Please go." Before she could protest, he grabbed her by the shoulders. "I can?t go yet. Not until I tell you I love you. I love you, Rebecca. Now, please marry me." The heartache that had claimed Rebecca?s heart dissipated as a near-blinding anger ripped through her. "How dare you!" she said unsteadily. She jerked away from him, her anger building with each second that passed. "How dare you tell me you love me just to get your own way." "But ?" "You spent enough time with me, we talked enough that you discovered that love is what I want and I won?t settle for less. How convenient of you to tell me now that you love me." "But it?s the truth," he exclaimed with a touch of indignation. "No, it?s a shrewd manipulation to get what you want. Flowers didn?t buy me, jewelry didn?t move me, so now you pull out the big guns." "Rebecca, please?this isn?t any sort of manipulation." He gazed at her, his bewilderment radiating from his eyes. "I thought you?d be pleased. How can I make you believe me? I love you." He tried to reach for her again, but she evaded his attempt. "You can?t make me believe you," she retorted, appalled to feel the burning of tears. If only she could believe him. But she didn?t dare. He didn?t know the first thing about love. She drew a deep breath. " Just go. I don?t ever want to see you or talk to you again." She turned and fled the room. Chapter Twenty-One Nicholas stared after her, hope seeping from him in a huge sigh. What now? Did he consign himself to a loveless marriage? Forget Rebecca with her dancing eyes and beautiful dreams? He could marry another, but he knew in his heart he would never forget Rebecca. She?d become a part of his heart. How could he make her understand that? He?d tried all his usual ways and they had failed?failed miserably because Rebecca wasn?t his usual type of woman. He played and replayed the moments spent with her in his mind, and suddenly, hope renewed itself in him. He raced out of Serena and Gabe?s house and returned an hour later. "I must speak with her one last time," he said to Serena when she allowed him entry. Serena frowned. "I don?t think she?ll come downstairs." "Then, I will go up." He headed for the stairs. "Third door on the right," Serena called after him.
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He found her stretched out on her bed, facedown. "Rebecca," he said softly. "Go away." The pillow muffled her voice. "I want to talk to you." "I said, go away." She punctuated the demand by throwing a pillow toward him. "Ah, you?re showing your temper again." She sat up, her eyes reddened from the tears she?d been shedding. The sight of those tears hurt him, yet filled him with renewed hope. If she didn?t care about him, why was she crying? "You told me once you could never fall in love with a man without dreams. At that time I had no dreams, but I?m not the same man. You gave me a glimpse of your dreams and somehow they became my own. I want what your parents had, a marriage based on love, and I can only have that with you." He waited a moment for her to say something, but she remained silent and he continued. "I was a fool to think flowers or expensive baubles might change your mind. That?s the Stanbury tradition, and I think it?s time I start a new tradition?a tradition of love." He handed her a small gift box. "Go on, open it." She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She opened the box to reveal a cheap, tawdry key ring in the shape of a heart. On the back was a sticker that read Made in Taiwan. She looked at Nicholas questioningly. "I figured Taiwan was a good place to begin our journey of anniversaries together. You know?keep your mother and father?s tradition going." She blinked once?twice?then stood and he reached for her. He held her close and stroked the softness of her hair. "I thought my destiny was to be King of Edenbourg, but I believe my true destiny is to spend my life loving you," he said. "Oh, Nicholas. I love you," Rebecca replied. The words sang in his heart, danced on his soul and he kissed her with all the love that was contained inside him. "Rebecca, marry me. Put me out of my misery. I can?t imagine my life without you," he said when their kiss had ended. "Yes," she replied, her eyes shining brighter than any gem he might possibly buy. "Yes, I?ll marry you." Again they kissed?a kiss of promise, of passion, of love. "What happens now?" she asked. "Do we find a justice of the peace so we can get married before your father?s deadline runs out?" "No." He stroked a finger down the side of her cheek. "I don?t want a hurry-up wedding. I only intend to do this once in my life, and I want it done right." He took her hand in his. "Come?we?ll go talk to my father." Chapter Twenty-Two Rebecca gripped Nicholas?s hand tightly as they stood before his father. King Michael frowned at the two of them, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead.
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"And tell me why I should grant your request," he said. "Why should I extend my deadline another month?" "It took a year for me to find a woman I love with all my heart." Nicholas looked at Rebecca, and in the warmth of his gaze she felt his love. "This is the woman I?ve been seeking, and she owns my heart. I love her, father. I love her as I?ve never loved before." "And what does this have to do with my deadline?" King Michael asked. "We can marry here, before a justice of the peace," Rebecca said. "I?ll marry Nicholas wherever, whenever, in whatever kind of ceremony he wants. But we think it would be better to marry in Edenbourg." "Where our countrymen can share in the celebration and the joy," Nicholas added. King Michael stared at them for a long moment. "There are some men born to duty, and others born to love. And there are a few very lucky ones who are born to have both. It would appear, my son, that you are one of the lucky ones. You will make a good king. Permission granted," he said, then waved his hands in dismissal. Nicholas squeezed Rebecca?s hand as they turned to leave. "Rebecca." The king halted them and they turned back to face him. "I command you to give me a grandchild within a year." "With all due respect, sir. There are some things you simply can?t command?nature being one of them. However, I can promise you this.?" She smiled at Nicholas. "We will do all that we can to try to adhere to your command." King Michael stared at her for a long moment, and Rebecca wondered if she?d somehow offended him. Then, one corner of his mouth curved upward and he nodded to his son. "You have chosen well." The half smile disappeared. "Now, go." They left the suite and when they stepped out into the hotel hallway, Nicholas gathered her into his arms. "You were wonderful," he said. "I was scared to death," she confessed. "He isn?t exactly the warm and cuddly kind of father, is he?" "No." Nicholas frowned thoughtfully. "For so many years I?ve rebelled against him because maybe someplace inside I wanted him to be a warm and cuddly father. But what he is, is a good and wise king." "And he said you will make a good king." Rebecca smiled at Nicholas. He pulled her closer, more tightly against him; his eyes darkened with desire?and love. "I will be a good king, but you will make me be a wise king because I?ll be a king who knows love." He kissed her and Rebecca responded with all the love she had for him inside her. She had not only found herself a prince?more important, she had found her happily-ever-after, and it was right here in Nicholas?s arms.
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The Marriage Secret by Kim Lawrence After three years of marriage, Emily Lynch is still wildly in love with her husband, computer magnate Finn Lynch, despite his workaholic habits. The only thorn in her side is the late nights he spends working with Maeve, his ex-wife and the mother of his child. Emily has always found Finn secretive about his relationship with Maeve ? now Emily has a secret of her own to tell Finn at their anniversary dinner. But Finn spends yet another late night with Maeve... Don't miss the passion and excitement of Kim Lawrence's wonderful story, or other similar novels found in Harlequin Presents.
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE "Can I help you?" The slight figure clad in an ankle-length trench coat didn't appear to hear the security guard. The newest addition to the security team at Lynch Compusoft cleared his throat and raised his voice to a less apologetic level. "I'm afraid, Miss...Miss!" he called out, deserting his post to intercept the intruder. As he spoke the diminutive figure stiffened and came to an abrupt halt. When she turned, a cloud of rich chestnut hair whipped across her pale, almost pretty face. "Mrs!" Emily corrected him firmly. She took a calming breath ? she could hardly blame a total stranger for mistaking her married status when her own husband forgot it when it suited him...and just lately it seemed to suit him most of the time, she brooded darkly. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I need to see some identification." "I'm Mrs. Lynch." The guy didn't look like this was ringing any bells for him. "Mrs. Finn Lynch." Your boss, she felt like adding, the genius ? according to certain reputable financial journals ? who, in 10 years, had turned the software company that bore his name from a one-man operation into a globally recognizable brand name. "I'm just going up to see my husband. Don't worry, he's expecting me?" The last bit was a blatant lie, but Emily felt she was entitled to the odd half-truth under the circumstances. Circumstances being in this case a husband who was lying, selfish rat! The young man's expression hardened perceptibly. "You'll have to come up with a better one than that! Mr. Lynch is here, but Mrs. Lynch is already with him and has been all night!" he revealed with an air of triumph. So what's new, Emily felt like asking. Emily hadn't minded ? well not much ? that Finn seemed to have forgotten it was their third anniversary. In her mood of euphoria she'd been inclined to forgive him almost anything ? almost!
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During the three years they'd been together Emily had got used to Finn's unique concept of time. So for the first hour she'd spent waiting for him this evening, she had managed to carry on smiling, anticipating the expression on his face when she finally got to share her news. It wasn't until he was three hours late and the meal she'd lovingly prepared was a shriveled mess that her resentment had kicked in, big time! "Hello, Maeve speaking." Hearing the husky tone of Finn's glamorous ex-wife Maeve answering the phone when she'd rang his office had transformed Emily's resentment into full-blown rage! "I'll have to ask you to leave," the security guard announced brusquely, interrupting her thoughts. "Mrs. Lynch... How are you?" Emily turned to see a familiar figure clad in the same security uniform as the young man. "Very well, thanks, Alec. I was just on my way up to see Finn," she explained as the older man escorted her past his stunned looking junior toward the lift. "I've brought some dinner for him." She held aloft the bag into which she'd scooped the miserable remains of their celebratory dinner. "Have a nice meal," Alec said as he pushed the lift button for her. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for what she was about to find. Sitting side by side on the chunky leather sofa in Finn's office, her husband and his ex-wife were chinking glasses as Emily, her chin up but her heart breaking, walked in. They didn't hear her; they were too wrapped up in each other. "Happy anniversary, darling," Emily drawled, emptying the contents of her bag into her husband's lap. CHAPTER TWO Finn shot to his feet, causing the nasty congealing mess to spill onto his shoes. Emily surveyed the damage and felt a pleasant glow of malicious satisfaction. Her only regret was that the shoes weren't the hideously expensive handmade numbers he often wore. Today he'd ditched the sharp formality of expensive tailoring in favor of the casual look. Six feet five inches of lean, athletic muscularity, Finn looked incredible in anything he wore. The gene pool had been kind to him: along with the curly dark eyelashes and stunning blue Irish eyes he'd inherited from his mother, Finn had been blessed with his Italian grandfather's classical profile and warm, golden Mediterranean coloring. "What is this?" The initial shock over, Finn looked fastidiously disgusted, but rigidly in control. Antipathy flared afresh in Emily's tight chest as their eyes met and clashed. "Oysters, duck in raspberry sauce, asparagus, baby new potatoes and, oh, profiteroles ? all your favorites." Maeve, who'd always been under the impression her ex's schoolteacher wife was boringly placid, gasped at the sheer audacity of this provocative response. Maeve looked up to check out how Finn was taking it; she knew he was less bothered than most men by the idea of looking foolish, but even he had his limits. She was shocked and a little envious to discover that
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Finn's burning, distracted gaze was fixed on the area where two buttons of his wife's long shapeless coat had parted to reveal a sliver of slim pale thigh. "Thanks, but I've already eaten," Finn returned thickly. His concentration was totally shot wondering what, if anything, Emily had on under her coat. "It was so considerate of you to let me know." "Something came up." For Finn this was quite an elaborate explanation. "So I see," Emily sneered, glaring with unambiguous animosity at the older woman, who looked embarrassed. "Emily!" Finn's voice was harsh with warning. Emily watched Maeve stand up; a man's woman, all sleek, slinky, and oozing sex appeal. "I'll leave you two to..." "No, Don't go, Maeve!" Finn appealed as his ex-wife shrugged on a fur-trimmed coat. Misery tightened like a fist around Emily's heart. He'd never begged her to do anything: Finn demanded and she, like the besotted, love-sick fool she was, gave ? and gave, and gave... "If she doesn't go, I will," Emily, close to bursting into tears, announced belligerently. Mouthing "sorry" to a furious looking Finn, Maeve slipped tactfully away. "You put Maeve in an impossible position," Finn censured icily as the door closed. "You put me in an impossible position when you carried on working with your ex-wife on a daily basis after we were married. I don't expect you not to see her," she admitted, trying to be fair. "You have a child together?" "Not again!" Finn groaned. "I've told you, it doesn't matter to me whether or not you and I can have children." He knew from bitter experience that Emily wouldn't believe him. Now was her chance to tell him. Emily opened her mouth and heard herself say. "Are you sleeping with Maeve, Finn?" CHAPTER THREE Did I really say that? Throat tight and aching, heart thudding, but looking defiantly unrepentant ? on the outside at least ? Emily met Finn's outraged glare head on. "I'm touched more than I can say by this display of trust," he bit out softly. Emily flushed uncomfortably under his icily ironic gaze, but her soft jaw firmed stubbornly.
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"That wasn't an answer, Finn, that was a strategic distraction!" Her eyes narrowed. Didn't people avoid answering questions when they had something to hide? His lip curled. "No, Emily, that was disillusioned distaste." Emily flushed. "What am I meant to think?" "Possibly that I meant the vows I made on our wedding day?" "You made the same vows to Maeve," she pointed out. Finn's expression darkened with annoyance. "That was different." "How exactly?" "Just different!" Her normally articulate husband came to an abrupt halt, his gaze sliding uncomfortably from hers. To Emily these signs of evasion were condemning. Oh, hell! Up to this point she hadn't really thought he was sleeping with Maeve ? not deep down. "You can't deny you see more of her than you do me!" Could I sound more childish if I tried? "Besides being Adam's mother, the woman is my marketing director, of course I spend time with her! You knew that situation wasn't going to alter when you married me." "Sure, you laid down the rules, as usual," she observed belligerently. "Maybe I just enjoy Maeve's company more?" Finn suggested, the maverick pulse in his lean left cheek working overtime. "And maybe I've got tired of playing the understanding wife to your selfish husband!" she flung back. "My enjoyment of her company could have something to do with the fact Maeve doesn't expect me to account for my movements in minute detail." The gross unfairness of this remark took Emily's breath away. She'd shown the tolerance of a saint! "Trying to take an interest in what your partner does is not jealousy." "You just asked me whether I was sleeping with my ex-wife," he reminded her dryly. "What would you call that?" Finn raked a hand through his thick glossy dark hair; the gesture was one of intense weariness. "Maeve isn't the problem here, your pathological jealousy and lack of self-esteem is." "I had oodles of self-esteem before I married you! What are you doing...?" She quavered in alarm as her husband began to unzip the jeans he was wearing. "What does it look like?" he asked kicking off his soiled trainers. Emily's breath snagged in her throat as his jeans followed the same route. Parts of her that shouldn't started to tingle. Even seething with hot resentment just looking at Finn's lean, bronzed body could turn her bones to water. She watched as he shed his shirt and selected some fresh clothes from the concealed storage cupboards lining the wall.
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Clad in a pair of boxers, he turned. Emily took one look into his smoldering eyes and realized even before her gaze dropped that the sexual tension had not been a one-way thing. "What have you got on under that thing?" he demanded in a raw voice that made her quivering stomach muscles spasm. CHAPTER FOUR Emily gasped audibly and looked away, but not before Finn had seen the soft unfocused sensual glaze slide into her wide, liquid-brown eyes. He smiled. "You think sex solves everything!" she accused hoarsely. An inherently honest person, Emily was forced to concede that her own attitude might have contributed more than a little to his assumption! The problem was, no matter how unreasonable Finn might be, or how mad he made her, when he touched her she was lost. Finn had come along with his sinful smile and wicked laughing eyes and a sensual side of her nature that she'd been blissfully ignorant of had hungrily awoken. "It's as good a place to start as any," Finn drawled languidly. "What sort of insensitive idiot would even think about making love at a time like this?" Emily wondered scathingly. "The sort of insensitive idiot you fell in love with and married, and if I ? being the injured party here ? am prepared to forgive and forget?" "Your generosity is astounding." Finn grinned appreciatively at her sarcastic riposte. It had been one of the great delights in his life to discover the restrained, shy, wide-eyed schoolteacher he'd fallen for at first sight possessed a sharp tongue, a clever wit, and a passionate warm nature. Far from being scared by his passionate advances as he'd feared, she'd responded with a rapturous enthusiasm and lack of inhibition that had knocked him sideways. And still did. "I suppose some people find your arrogance attractive." "You did." Mockery glittered savagely in his electric blue eyes as he lifted her chin gently with one finger. Closing her eyes tight was about the only defence left to Emily. As defences went, it wasn't great. "I pretended." Her voice emerged as a breathy whisper. "Don't do that, Finn," she pleaded throatily as she felt him unfastening the buttons on her coat. "Why, you're hot... I know you're hot." His silky, suggestive drawl sent Emily's temperature soaring another few sizzling degrees, and her eyes fluttered open. Her needy gaze fastened on his face at the same moment her coat slid to the ground with a rush. Emily heard his stark sibilant intake of breath, and saw his eyes widen. "Did you put that on for me?"
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His husky words brought back vividly the elation and confidence she'd felt when she'd dressed earlier that evening. It brought back even more vividly how miserable it had felt sitting there alone watching the minutes tick by. It was obvious to Finn even before she replied in that wooden little voice that he'd said the wrong thing. "Yes, I put it on for you, Finn. I put it on when I thought that for once you'd come home when you said you would." "I didn't forget it was our anniversary, Emily." "That only makes it worse!" "There is an explanation?" "I don't want an explanation, Finn, I just want to know one thing. If I asked you to sack, Maeve, would you?" CHAPTER FIVE In two seconds flat Finn's mobile features were wiped clear of all warmth and animation. "I don't respond well to blackmail, Emily. Neither am I about to pander to your insecurities." Eyes icy cold, nostrils flared, he regarded her with chilling detachment. "Maeve has always been a loyal and valuable member of the team." Not to mention the mother of his son and his first love! "I'll take that as a no, shall I?" "Why do you feel so threatened by Maeve?" Emily's jaw dropped. Was he for real? "Other than the fact you were drinking champagne with her on our anniversary? Let me see?." She pressed a finger to her pursed lips and adopted an expression of intense concentration. "I'm deeply irrational?" The fake smile vanished as she lifted her narrowed eyes to his face. "Or I suppose it could have something to do with the fact you're virtually joined at the hip to someone who is incredibly beautiful, talented, has your baby?" Swearing harshly under his breath Finn grabbed his wife by the waist and hauled her roughly against him. "I didn't marry you for your childbearing hips, woman." His hands slid down until his thumbs rested on the soft curve of her narrow pelvis. Emily's foxy red hair, soft and silky, brushed underneath his chin as her head fell forward against his chest. With a groan Finn pressed his face into the burnished mass, inhaling deeply the sweet, freshly washed smell. His hand moved under the short skirt of her dress and he felt her shiver as his fingers moved over the silky soft skin of her inner thigh. "Cut that out, Finn!" Emily, on the point of dissolving, yelped, pulling free just as his tongue started doing shivery delicious things behind her ear. "What?"
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"Don't look the innocent, Finn! You know I can't think when you?" The raw sensual glint in his eyes made her stomach flip. "And put some clothes on," she added hoarsely. "This isn't about getting pregnant, Finn. Well, not entirely," honesty impelled her to add. "Actually I?" "Actually what?" Emily shook her head, you couldn't use a baby to paper over the cracks in a marriage. "It's about the basics." "Basics?" He regarded her with obvious impatience. "Things like you letting me share things with you." "I share." "No, Finn, that's Maeve you're thinking of. I'm Emily, the dumb redhead you keep at home." "Sure, keep 'em barefoot and tied to the sink, that's my style." "Don't be flippant! I want to be involved, Finn. I want to know about the things that worry you." "You worry me when you talk like this." "Sometimes you treat me more like a mistress than a wife!" she accused hotly. "Is that a bad thing?" "This isn't a joke!" she raged. Finn looked into her stormy distressed face and drew a deep breath before gritting his teeth. "I know how much this baby issue matters to you. If you want, I'll go with you for tests and things." Emily didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She was touched by what for him was obviously an enormous sacrifice, but also frustrated by his inability to see what she was trying to say. "Have you listened to anything I've been saying, Finn?" she despaired. "And don't worry, there won't be any need for tests and things, because I'm pregnant!" CHAPTER SIX There was only so long a girl could hold her breath, Emily thought. Finn hadn't leapt for joy at the news she was pregnant ? in fact, he hadn't moved a muscle. "Well I know this isn't new for you, but I was expecting a moderate display of pleasure." Unless, of course, he'd changed his mind? He already had Adam; perhaps the boy satisfied all his paternal needs. Finn blinked. "You?" The muscles in his throat worked convulsively. "You're pregnant?" He grabbed her by the forearms. "Pregnant?!" Emily watched the slow wondering smile break out across his dark face and felt a surge of relief. "I did the test this morning. Well, actually," she admitted, "I did three ? just to be on the safe side. I had it all planned I was going to tell you over dinner, only ?"
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"? I didn't turn up." He grimaced and Emily pushed aside the unwelcome thought that he looked guilty. "I've got terrible timing. God, what a hell of a coincidence!" "You're pleased then?" she asked, feeling for some reason ridiculously shy. "I'm stunned," Finn breathed honestly. What man wouldn't be, discovering he was about to become a father. Although he thought of Adam as his own son ? and as far as the rest of the world was concerned the boy was ? it wasn't the same as knowing you'd created a life with the woman you loved. "Stunned happy?" Finn swept his wife into his arms and kissed her lingeringly. "Stunned, deliriously happy and of course, relieved." "Relieved?" "Relieved that I won't have to subject my person to the indignities of medical intervention." "Well it was never going to happen, was it?" she pointed out, amused by his squeamish shudder. "I mean, your fertility was never under question ? you've got Adam." An odd expression flickered momentarily into her husband's brilliant blue eyes. "God, yes, I hadn't thought of that." Emily had. She'd only shared her thoughts on the subject once with Finn, who had said he'd strangle her if he heard the word blame in that context again. She'd believed him. It was only now that Emily could finally admit that her desire for Finn's baby had put their marriage under a lot of strain lately. Emily linked her fingers behind Finn's neck and twisted the dark hair that lay against his nape. "What would you like, a boy or girl?" "Surprise me." She gave a contented sigh. "Earlier, when you said something about a coincidence, what did you mean?" she wondered idly. "You're not the only one who's pregnant." "I'm not? Who else...?" It would be nice to have someone else to compare pregnancy notes with, she thought, burrowing into his shoulder. "Maeve told me tonight that Adam is going to have a little brother or sister, hence the champagne." He felt Emily stiffen in his embrace before she pushed away. "Maeve is having a baby?" Please don't let it be?. "Apparently." "And who is the father?" Finn regarded the signs of tension and hostility in his wife's rigid figure with deepening misgivings and growing incomprehension.
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"Actually, Maeve isn't too keen on anyone knowing ?" The shifty look could mean only one thing. "How could you, Finn?" "How could I what?" He got no reply; Emily was gone. By the time Finn emerged from the lift into reception he had worked out what Emily had meant. This accounted for the red haze of fury dancing before his eyes. "Anything I can do, sir?" The youthful figure behind the desk asked, trying hard not to look at the boss's bare feet. Another button came off and Finn gave up on fastening his shirt. "Which way did my wife go?" he barked unsmilingly. "Which one, sir?" The savage expression on his employer's lean face as the laser blue eyes slid over him convinced the young man he was about to lose his job or maybe even his teeth. He let out a silent sigh of relief as the rigid tall figure stalked wordlessly past him. CHAPTER SEVEN Finn recalled again the expression of tearful reproach in Emily's eyes and ground his teeth. She thought ? the woman he loved, the soon-to-be mother of his child actually thought... He pressed his foot to the car floor, felt the powerful engine respond, and reflected bitterly on the sheer perversity of females in general, and his wife in particular. "I wish I'd never seen the damned woman!" he snarled out loud. His grim expression lightened fractionally as his mind drifted back to the first moment he'd ever seen Emily. A tiny thing with a cloud of wayward burnished curls, melting brown eyes, and a wide kissable mouth. The combination had stopped him in his tracks. Finn had felt physical attraction before, but nothing had ever approached the exultant sense of recognition he'd experienced at that moment. She was his ? it was that simple! "Adam's very artistic, Mr. Lynch," she'd said gravely as she handed him the childish daub. "You must be very proud of him." Adam, clearly besotted by his new nursery teacher, had only reluctantly relinquished her slim hand to take his father's. Finn had understood the boy's reluctance totally. Finn had gone straight back to the house he shared with Maeve and asked her for a divorce. It was something they'd both agreed should happen if one of them eventually met someone that mattered. There would be no bitter recriminations, and all arrangements would have to disrupt Adam as little as possible. Despite this agreement Finn could tell Maeve had been taken aback by his request. He didn't blame her; he was pretty taken aback himself, as their unconventional arrangement had worked pretty well for five years. "Who is she?" Maeve had asked. "I don't know her name, but she's not wearing a ring." Maeve had regarded the man she thought she knew so well with growing fascination. "You looked?"
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Finn nodded. "Definitely no ring." "Don't you think, Finn, that it might be an idea to get to know this woman-without-a-ring a little before you do anything drastic?" an amused Maeve had asked. "Perhaps a date??" Finn had shaken his head decisively, his expression quite ruthless as he'd observed, "No, she's not the sort who would get involved with a married man." And he didn't want an affair, which was strange because Finn Lynch, despite his wedded state, had never thought of himself as the marrying kind. "You could tell that just by looking?" Maeve asked wonderingly. "Most definitely." He'd been right. It had been an uphill battle to get Emily to date him after the divorce came through. Unfortunately, she'd got it into her head that he was acting on the rebound, and he was in no position to put her straight. Finn drew up outside the 16th-century, half-timbered cottage he and Emily shared. A taxi was still parked on the forecourt. This was going to be tough. CHAPTER EIGHT "I've got money inside," Emily assured the cynical-looking taxi driver. "But you don't have a key?" Emily's embarrassed blush deepened. "They were both in my coat." "Which you forgot, right?" He'd heard it all before. In his experience the ones with the posh accents, in the fancy clothes, were often the worst culprits. "It's the truth!" "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," came the laconic response. "But either way it doesn't pay my bill, lady." "The little window in the utility room is open," Emily exclaimed excitedly. "If you gave me a leg up I could get through, I'm sure I could!" "The man looks far too sensible to be party to a breaking and entering." Emily recoiled, not only from the blast of cold air that entered the cab as the passenger door was flung open, but also from the grim-faced owner of the deep voice. "Don't listen to him!" Emily instructed the driver rigidly. "Go away, Finn! she hissed, throwing the tall figure a look of loathing. "I'm not going anywhere. I live here, remember?" Finn drawled. Emily was the first to look away, unable to withstand further contact with the scornful blaze in his spectacular eyes. What a cheek! From the way he was looking at her anyone would think he was the injured party! Not that she could blame Finn entirely. It had been obvious right from the outset that he hadn't been telling her everything about his divorce. Why hadn't she listened to her instincts? Because you were too damned eager to jump into Finn's bed is why, came the humiliating reply.
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The driver rubbed his chin. "Seems to me as though he's got a point, love." "It's got nothing to do with him!" Emily responded shrilly. "Listen, I don't want to get mixed up in a domestic dispute ? I just want my money." He looked hopefully at Finn, who nodded and reached into his trouser pocket. His hand came out empty. "I must have left my wallet in my other trousers." The driver sighed. "That figures. You know, you two are well suited. Between you, you might even have a full set of clothes." His disparaging gaze shifted from Emily's dress to Finn's bare feet. "I think," Emily commented in her best schoolteacher voice, "that you're a very rude man! I shall climb in the window myself," she announced. "Do you really think you're dressed for it, Emily?" Emily felt her nipples pinch hard and tight as Finn's insolent blue glance dropped deliberately to the bare upper slopes of her breasts. To think I bought this dress with the purpose of seducing him! It was comforting to know that, if he dared comment on the appearance of her breasts ? and Finn was crude enough to do so, thought Emily, choosing to overlook the fact she'd often enjoyed Finn's crudeness ? she could blame these physical developments on the cold, for it was teeth-jarringly freezing. "I hardly think you're in any position to make fashion judgments, Finn Lynch," she observed with a disparaging sniff. It was at that point Finn decided not to mention the spare key he kept in the Jag! CHAPTER NINE Standing in the darkness of the herb garden, Emily could just about make out the small window and, yes, it was open. Her satisfaction was short-lived; actually it wasn't small, it was very small, and it looked an awful lot higher up than she'd mentally pictured. Getting in by this route would call for a ladder and a good head for heights, neither of which she possessed. "Are you going to stand there all night?" Emily jumped and spun around, her heart racing. "How did you get in there?" she demanded indignantly of the tall dark figure suddenly outlined in the golden light filling the open doorway. Finn dangled a key ring and thumbed through a healthily thick wallet. "Spare key and cash in the car. My days as a Boy Scout were not wasted after all. Always be prepared," he quoted virtuously. Not always, he hadn't been, Emily recalled, lowering her eyes in panicky confusion as the intrusive recollection of the first time they'd made love crept into her head. She remembered lying there in a blitzed condition staring at the ceiling, feeling the warm fluttery aftershocks of the shattering climax. A good-night kiss that hadn't been! "Oh my god!" she'd mumbled for the umpteenth time since his heavy frame had finally slipped off her trembling, sweat-slick body.
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"If anything happens, you mustn't worry, Emily." Emily nodded. She supposed she should have been sensibly alarmed by the idea of an unwanted pregnancy, but she wasn't feeling sensible. "I want you to know I don't make a habit of this...carelessness," Finn had emphasized worriedly as he took her chin in his hand and looked into her hazy unfocused eyes. "Well, you already know that I don't," she replied with a shaky laugh. The reminder made him flinch. Finn had been pretty devastated to discover that he was her first. In fact, if she hadn't assured him he'd have her death on his conscience if he didn't continue, Emily was pretty sure he would have stopped right then! Thank God he hadn't! "Hell, I'm so sorry, I was too?" Emily had halted the torrent of self-recrimination with a kiss. "Too gorgeous for words is what you are!" she'd told him firmly. "You were incredible, Finn!" she'd whispered rapturously. "It was amazing, and when can we do it agai?" "Come on in before you get hypothermia, woman!" Finn's irritated voice tugged her back to the present. "I think I already have," she jittered. Wrapping her arms around her body, she walked past him into the small vestibule that led into the heart of their home ? the big farmhouse kitchen. She took a seat at the big refectory table bought at an antique fair on a weekend trip they'd taken to Normandy. Had he and Maeve been...together even then? Had they ever not? I'm my mother all over again, she thought in self-disgust, acknowledging her deepest fear. Emily had known about her father's mistress, the whole village had known, but not her mother. Finn, after seeing she was literally shaking with cold, opened the lids on the woodstove that sat in the inglenook. Extra heat immediately flooded the room. "I don't know why you're looking at me like that, Emily. Things are going to plan, aren't they? Haven't I done what I was supposed to do ? run after you?" "I didn't want you to run after me!" she denied, thrown off balance by his cool observation. "Sure, it must have come as an enormous surprise when I turned up," he drawled. "I suppose the next thing I'm Supposed to do is plead with you to believe that Maeve's baby isn't mine?" His eyes hardened. "Well, news flash, sweetheart. I'm not going to!" CHAPTER TEN Shaking with shock and revulsion, Emily pressed her cold, stiff fingertips to her trembling lips. "Then you're admitting you're?"
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"The only thing I'm admitting," Finn bit back, "is that I've had a gut full of justifying myself to you, Emily. How do you think it makes me feel to know the woman I love thinks I run around the country impregnating other women!" he thundered. "Tell me, do I act as if our sex life doesn't satisfy me?" he demanded. "Well?" Mutely, she shook her head. The only time he'd displayed any dissatisfaction was when, after months of tedious temperature taking and ovulation charts, he'd walked into the bathroom they shared and before her astounded eyes had flushed the whole lot down the toilet. "We'll make love," he'd announced authoritatively, "when we feel like it. I won't be limited to only touching my wife when she's likely to conceive. And if we meet at lunchtime to make love, it will be because we can't wait until the evening. I won't be rationed ? I'm a man not a machine!" Overawed by this macho display and secretly relieved to ditch the whole palaver, Emily had meekly nodded. "Not women," she protested weakly. He loves me? She clung to those three all-important words when the rest of her world seemed to be disintegrating around her. "No, not women," he conceded in a leaden tone that made her wince. "Emily. Is it because of Adam? Or can't you stand the idea there was anyone before you?" Emily shook her head. "I love Adam, you know that." Adam stayed most weekends and Emily loved to see him with Finn, who was a fantastic father. "And I'd much prefer to be your last love than your first," she admittedly warily. At least he didn't reject the idea outright. "Maeve shares so much with you that I don't, Finn," she tried to haltingly explain. "She's so... How would you feel if I saw an ex-lover every day?" She saw his unguarded expression and knew she'd made her point. "I'm your only lover." "I'm talking hypothetically. I feel shut out, excluded when Maeve's around, and I don't know why, but I always get the impression that you two have a secret." He shrugged. "If we have and I haven't told you, it must be for a good reason." "You can't say something like that and leave it!" Emily protested. "I can and I have. This is it, I told you I've had enough." Hands palm-flat on the table, he bent down toward her. The blood drained from Emily's face leaving her deathly pale. This conversation had suddenly taken a turn she had not reckoned on ? a turn that was making her head spin in confusion. "You're saying you want to...to...split up?" Why the shock, Emily? a voice in her head taunted. Didn't you always think this would happen? Didn't you always say why would a man like Finn want me? Oh my god! It's some awful self-fulfilling prophecy! Me, I've done this. I've virtually pushed the man I love into another woman's arms. "No, I don't want us to split up." Because of the baby, a spiteful voice she tried hard to ignore suggested. "But this is about trust, Emily. We've got no future until you start trusting me." CHAPTER ELEVEN
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The echo of his uncompromising words resounded in Emily's ears as the silence between them stretched. With each passing second of horrid hush it became harder and harder to speak. Head bent, her red hair brushing the table, Emily looked at his hands pressed down against the wood, his knuckles white. Finn had the most incredible hands. What am I doing getting turned on by hands when my entire future happiness is hanging in the balance? she asked herself angrily. Subconscious delaying tactics...because you're a coward, came the knowledgeable mental response. Pull yourself together, girl, think, ? this is important. Say the right thing, she instructed herself sternly. Do not mess it up! "That sounds like an ultimatum, Finn." As displays of calm objectivity went, this quavering effort was pathetic. After taking a deep gulp, she forced herself to meet his eyes. Immediately she got a blast of the grim, angry implacability she'd been expecting, but that wasn't all. It was the other thing she saw that really got to her ? the faintest suggestion of vulnerability in those crystal-blue depths that only someone who knew Finn very well could have detected. Arrogant, assured, assertive, borderline bossy...these things she associated with her husband. Insecurities just never entered the picture. I'm so caught up in how I'm feeling, I've not spared a thought for what this is doing to Finn. "Ultimatum?" Finn shook his head. "No, I'm just stating a fact, Emily, not making a grand gesture. You must know that your jealousy and suspicion is driving a wedge between us," he continued, his normally expressive voice dull and deadened. "This should be the best of times for us, we should be celebrating our baby." He walked around the table and, falling to his knees, pressed his head against her still-flat stomach. Emily gasped, feeling the pressure of his warm lips through the fine fabric, the heat spreading like arrows of fire through her body. "We should be enjoying every second of this time, sweetheart." She felt tears fill her eyes. "Before I get fat and ugly, you mean?" He lifted his dark head. "Lush and lovely," he contradicted huskily. In that second Emily believed totally in the love shining in his eyes.... There would be other seconds, though, when the doubts and fears would slip back. Emily found herself wanting to explain everything, just like she had all those other times. Only each time she'd tried, something clenched inside her and she couldn't. The same thing happened again now. "I have a problem with trust and men, Finn. I'm so sorry," was all she could manage. It sounded horribly inadequate. If he ever got hold of the man who had made her lose her faith in the whole damned sex, he'd personally throttle him, Finn decided grimly. "I'm not men," he gritted. "I'm your husband. Not a particularly brilliant one maybe," he conceded dryly. "I might forget to telephone you when I should sometimes. I might make too many unilateral decisions." "Might??"
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Finn returned her watery grin with his own wolfish version. "It's not like I don't want to ? I just don't know how," he admitted. "I knew my life would change when we got married. Hell, I wanted it to, but I wasn't prepared.?" His shoulders lifted. "Blame it on the fact I've been a solo act for too long, able to do what I want, when I want.?" "But, Finn," Emily interrupted with a perplexed frown. "What about all the years you were with Maeve?" CHAPTER TWELVE Finn froze. "Oh God, yes, I forgot." Forgot...? "You were talking as if you'd never been married before." As much as Emily would have liked to wipe out those years he'd shared with Maeve, she couldn't pretend they hadn't existed; and Finn had never behaved as if he wanted to. "Three years is quite a long time." "Perhaps I'm a slow learner." Emily's confusion deepened as his eyes slid warily from hers. "I wasn't talking about being married to Maeve," he said softly. "I was talking about being married to you." Hands pressed against his muscular thighs, he drew himself upright in one lithe motion. "How different could it be?" she blurted out without thinking. If he thought she was requesting some sort of compare and contrast thing, she'd die! "More different than you could ever believe." "You know how much I hate it when you're cryptic." Her faint smile faded when there was no answering glint of humor in his own face. "How different can it be?" she repeated. Instinct made her grab for his shirttail as he made to turn from her. "Just different." "Why are you being defensive?" she challenged. "I am not being defensive." "Yes, you are ? defensive, secretive, furtive?" "Don't be ridiculous, Emily, I just don't want to discuss my previous marriage with you." The combination of ice and impatience in his face and voice made Emily see red. "For God's sake, Finn!" she exploded. "I'm not asking for details of your sex life." Her eyes narrowed. "You really shouldn't play poker, darling." "Meaning?" "Meaning you look as guilty as sin, and don't you dare refer to my pathological suspicions!" she yelled. It wasn't easy to fight on equal terms with someone who was towering over you, so Emily unhooked her ankles from around the barley-twist legs of her oak chair and made to get to her feet. She was halfway
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through the simple procedure before she realized she couldn't feel her right foot. Had Finn not seen her dilemma and caught her, she'd have fallen. "What is it?" he demanded, turning her face up to him. Emily blinked as his blue eyes raked her face. They looked incredibly brilliant against a complexion that had become unnaturally pale and strained. "Speak to me!" he demanded hoarsely. The soundless little gasp that escaped her parted lips as her body grew limp in his arms didn't soothe his alarm. He was no medical expert but even he could tell her breathing had changed perceptibly, getting shallow and worryingly rapid. He swore softly under his breath as her eyes half closed. "Emily!" He shook her slightly and was relieved when her dark lashes lifted off her cheek. "Are you ill, sweetheart? Shall I call a doctor ? ambulance...? Oh, God, it's not the baby?" "No, no ? the baby's fine, I'm fine." she managed to breathlessly reassure him. "A numb foot ? must have been sitting awkwardly. Pins and needles now." "Well, you don't look fine," Finn responded with a suspicious frown. Emily felt the prickling heat that already bathed her body rush up to her neck, and it didn't stop until her whole face was burning. "That, you stupid man, is because you're too?" She threw him an exasperated look as he shook his head. "Do you want me to draw a diagram? I can't look at you without going weak at the knees, okay! I'm turned on, you fool!" CHAPTER THIRTEEN "I suppose you're happy now!" Emily accused belligerently before burying her hot face against his shirt. Unfortunately for her sanity, it wasn't fastened properly and she found her face pressed against golden, satiny hard skin. Unforgivably, Finn laughed ? a rich, possessive sound. "I suppose this is your idea of changing the subject?" she accused wildly. "Well, it won't work!" Who are you kidding? "I didn't do anything," he protested. He didn't need to. "It isn't me," she said defensively. "Pregnancy messes with a woman's hormones. I've heard it makes some women go off sex altogether." He wouldn't like that, but then if the tables were turned, neither would she. "What?" she cried distractedly as she felt him lift the heavy weight of her hair off her neck. "Now I'm doing something," Finn explained gravely as he slid the zip of her dress all the way down in one smooth motion. Emily gasped and pulled away in alarm as the slippery material parted, making a sexy, whispery noise. She stood frozen as the dress peeled away from her body. It wasn't until she felt the touch of fresh air on the aching peaks of her tender, full breasts that she looked down.
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Her heaving breasts were completely exposed; only the fact that the shoulder straps were snagged halfway down her slim upper arms had stopped further revelations. Her darkened glance shifted to Finn, but her eyes only got as far as the gap in his shirt and wouldn't move any higher. She watched his chest lift and fall as a deep sigh shuddered through his powerful frame. A thrill of sexual excitement so intense it made her head spin shot through Emily. She knew that if she had an ounce of spirit, she would be putting up some sort of token struggle. The problem was, where Finn was concerned, she'd always been easy! "Look at me, Emily." She felt her already tumultuous heartbeat quicken. With lower lip caught between her teeth, she did as he asked ? when had she not? Emily saw her own desperation mirrored in the fierce burning blue depths of his eyes. She whimpered as her insides dissolved with longing so sweet, so intense, she couldn't breathe. "I wanted you the very first moment I saw you, Emily, and I've not stopped wanting you since." He reached across and touched the fabric that was slipping sexily over her shoulders. One judicious tug sent it slithering silently to the ground, leaving Emily standing there in a minute pair of pants, lacy stay-up stockings and high-heeled sling-backs. "Kiss me properly, Finn!" she pleaded throatily. "I'll do more than that," he promised huskily, scooping her up into his arms. He did ? several times. It wasn't until very much later that Emily began to think once more about Finn's comments on his previous life: What he wanted, when he wanted. The more she analyzed, the more it seemed likely that he and Maeve had virtually lived their separate lives ? had a sort of open marriage. Just how open ? that was the question! "Finn, are you awake?" she whispered into his ear. "Uh-huh," came the sleepy reply. "Did you have other lovers when you were married to?Maeve? Finn! " she repeated, digging him in the ribs. His dark eyelashes lifted from his cheek. "What...? Oh ? yes, some," he mumbled, rolling over. CHAPTER FOURTEEN It was obvious to Emily the next day that Finn had no recollection of either her question or his own reply. After giving the matter some serious consideration she had decided to leave it that way. Even though what he'd revealed had shocked her deeply, she acknowledged that what Finn had done before he married her was really none of her business. Of course, if he ever even hinted that he wanted a similar arrangement with her, that would be different, Emily thought grimly, her stomach tightening in distaste at the idea of sexual liaisons outside marriage.
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Emily would have enjoyed the next few days of fragile peace between them even more if it hadn't been for the fact that the unpleasant side effects of pregnancy had kicked in with a vengeance. She looked at the cup of tea the school nurse had left her and forced herself to take a sip even though it made her feel queasy. The door opened and Emily shot to her feet. "I didn't want them to call you!" she cried defensively as the tall, familiar figure of her husband appeared. Finn looked at her pale face expressionlessly and closed the door quietly behind him. "So I understand." "I got a little light-headed and had to lie down, end of story." "You fainted," he corrected her, "and not for the first time apparently." Emily grimaced. "Oh, she told you about that, did she?" "Mentioned it in passing. For some reason the headmistress seemed to think that I might know all about it." Emily winced at the biting sarcasm in his tone. "What are you doing?" she asked as he removed her coat from the coatrack behind the door. "Taking you home." "I can't go home ? I've got a class to teach." "No, you haven't. They're making other arrangements." "Don't I have any say in the matter?" Deep down Emily was secretly relieved, but she couldn't encourage such high-handed behavior. Finn placed the coat over her slender shoulders and spun her around to face him. It was at that moment that Emily realized just how ferociously angry he was. "No!" he growled. "You don't. I just can't believe how stupid you're being," he breathed incredulously. "If your dizzy spells are just that, fair enough, but hasn't it occurred to you they may be a symptom of an underlying problem? Didn't it cross your mind that you might be putting yourself and the baby at risk by ignoring them?" "Oh!" Emily gulped suddenly. Her stoic behavior seemed criminally reckless. "I didn't want you to think I was one of those feeble women who expect to be waited on hand and foot just because they're pregnant." Finn looked totally bewildered. "What are you talking about?" Her lower lip quivered. "Maeve doesn't get morning sickness." She knew this because Finn had told her so while he was mopping her fevered brow after a particularly horrid bout of throwing up. "What the hell has that got to do with anything? Alan Martin is waiting at home to check you over." "You can't expect a consultant gynecologist to make a house call, Finn!" Emily protested. "You can't carry me," she added urgently, as he swept her up into his arms. "Why not?" he responded, on both counts. "Oh God, the dinner party!" she wailed, suddenly recalling the important clients they were meant to be entertaining that evening.
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"Don't panic, Maeve has already offered to stand in for you." CHAPTER FIFTEEN "Isn't that nice of Maeve." "Yes, isn't it," Finn responded absently, totally failing to detect the irony in his wife's bitter tone. Dinner parties weren't a high priority with him at that particular moment. Sorting out his wife's health problems were. He'd been in a state of frustrated anxiety ever since he'd received the urgent call from the head of the kindergarten. It hadn't improved matters to discover that this wasn't the first time Emily had been ill at work. Realizing she'd not seen it fit to confide in him had made Finn angrier than he'd have thought possible. Until he'd walked into the room and seen her standing there looking heartbreakingly fragile, Finn had had every intention of reading her the riot act. One look into those big brown eyes and his righteous indignation had melted, to be replaced by an equally strong desire to shield her from any and all ills. Well, this child was going to be a one-off. No way was Emily getting pregnant again, he decided, brooding grimly on the unacceptably high risk, major discomfort factors of pregnancy that frivolous people skimmed over. "I don't suppose Maeve is feeling sick or fainting." Emily remarked as he placed her in the front passenger seat of the Jag. "I don't suppose she is." Finn slid in beside her. "I expect she's glowing." "Probably. Try and have a nap or something, we'll be home in no time," he promised. Emily closed her eyes but all she could see was that woman presiding over her dinner table, charming the pants off everyone, including Finn ? especially Finn! Finn stayed while the doctor examined her, and Emily suspected the distinguished medic's noncommittal grunts frustrated him as much as they did her. "So, what's the verdict, Alan?" "Well, there's no need to worry." In unison Finn and Emily sighed gustily with relief. They looked at one another and grinned. "However, she's obviously exhausted, and her blood pressure is a little low?." "And that is bad?" Finn cut in impatiently. "Not necessarily, but I think you might be a trifle anemic, Emily. I'll send off the blood sample to check, but in the meantime we might start you on some iron therapy. Iron deficiency anemia is perfectly normal in pregnancy, especially when... You are sure of your dates?" Emily nodded worriedly, sensing a big but coming.
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Oh God, there's something wrong with the baby, she thought suddenly. Panic blanketed her; it was like drowning, but in the middle of it all she felt Finn's big strong hand close comfortingly over hers. Looking up, her eyes met his. His gaze was calm and soothingly confident, helping her to get a grip on her feelings. "Well, I'd say from palpation that ? you understand that I can't say definitely without a scan?" He looked from Emily to Finn. "For goodness' sake, man, spit it out!" Finn exploded, raking an unsteady hand through his thick hair. "Well, you're either having a very large baby, or more likely...twins." "Oh my God!" Finn sank down onto the bed, his face white. "Twins!" he echoed in a hollow voice. "You're sure?" "No, I'm not sure, but I'd say the odds are heavily stacked." Emily didn't need the scan: Call it maternal instinct, call it a gut feeling, but she knew.? CHAPTER SIXTEEN "Twins," Finn repeated, as if saying it again would make the prospect any more real. It didn't. This time it was Emily's small hand that closed comfortingly around his. "Well, I'll arrange a scan for the morning to confirm, and don't forget, Emily, eat little amounts often until the nausea stops. Bad sickness is more common with twins, too," Alan added cheerfully as he clicked shut his case. Finn got to his feet. "I'll see you out." As soon as the bedroom door closed behind them, he turned to the doctor. "Twins means increased risks ? right?" "Well, with proper medical care and?" "Cut the soothing pep talk. Just give me the facts and figures," Finn cut in impatiently. Five minutes later Finn returned to the bedroom. "How do you feel about it?" he asked Emily without preamble. She pulled herself up onto her knees. "I don't really know," she admitted. "Scared...excited?" "It'll mean you'll have to take a lot better care of yourself," Finn warned sternly. "No bouncing," he added as she began to excitedly rock back and forth, hugging her knees. "Lots of people have twins," she teased. "I don't care about lots of people, just you," he announced with a fierce possessive look that made her heart pound. "I won't be wrapped in cotton wool," she warned him. "And before you say anything, I need to work for a while yet. If I have too much time on my hands," she explained earnestly, "I'll only worry. I won't do anything silly ? cross my heart," she promised. "Work with me on this, Finn, please?" "When the doctor tells you to quit, you quit ? right?"
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Emily beamed. "Definitely. Oh, you're so lovely." "I'm a pushover," he contradicted with a wry smile. The doorbell rang, and with a frown Finn glanced at his wristwatch. "Hell, that'll be Maeve. I wish I'd canceled the damned dinner." "Never mind, we can talk when they're all gone," Emily replied, her earlier jealousies almost forgotten in the delight of discovery. "Tell her the starters are in the fridge and ? perhaps I should just come down and show her?" She flung the duvet aside. "No way!" Finn pressed a firm finger to cover her. "We'll cope. You get some rest." To please him, Emily did lie back down, though she had no expectation of falling asleep. She was too awake, her mind racing. Even so, it wasn't long before a heavy-limbed stupor crept over her. Emily slept heavily, not even aware of the occasions when Finn left his guests to quietly look in on her. The room was dark when she woke to the sounds of raised, angry voices. Alarmed, she switched on the bedside lamp and saw it was after midnight. She got out of bed and reached for her robe. Drawn by the sound of voices she went barefoot into the hallway. At the top of the stairs she stopped, realizing that the argument she had heard was taking place just below her. "James and I have talked this over, Finn, and we think this is too good an opportunity to miss." Emily was startled to identify Maeve's low tones raised in shrill defense. "Please be reasonable about this." "You can't go to the other side of the world. I won't let you!" It only took two seconds for Emily's world to came crashing down around her ears as she identified Maeve's antagonist. Finn, her Finn, his voice throbbing with emotion, was begging Maeve to stay because he couldn't bear to be without her. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Hand clamped across her mouth to prevent herself crying out, Emily ran back to their bedroom, heedless of the noise her bare feet made on the polished-oak boards. She doused the light and flung herself headlong on the bed, only to discover that although she could hide her head beneath a pillow there was no place to hide from the misery coursing through her body. After all the scorn and disgust she'd felt for her poor mother, who couldn't handle the truth about her husband's infidelity, and chose instead to believe his pathetic lies, it was particularly ironic to find herself in a similar situation. All Emily wanted to do was close her eyes and pretend she hadn't heard the raw anguish in Finn's voice as he contemplated being parted from Maeve. Emily had no concept of how long she lay there curled up in a fetal ball of denial, but part of her had subconsciously registered that the house had gone very quiet ? and stayed that way for some time before the bedroom door finally opened. Still and tense, hardly daring to breath, she listened to the sounds of Finn shedding his clothes in the dark. Was he going to come to bed and act as if nothing had happened? Was she going to wake up in the morning and act as if nothing had happened...? The antique brass bed-frame was suddenly shaken as Finn, who must have walked into it in the dark, swore softly. Nerves stretched tight, Emily let out a startled yelp and sat up.
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"Sorry, baby, I didn't mean to wake you." "I wasn't asleep," Emily admitted. "Was it a good party?" she heard herself ask brightly of the shadowy outline beside the bed. "It was all right." The mattress dipped as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Did the noise wake you?" Was he sitting there wondering how much she knew? "I did hear something." She felt the draft as Finn pulled back the quilt and slid beneath. "Come here." Emily didn't resist as he reached for her, slotting her soft body comfortably against the hard angles of his naked body. She felt him shudder as he pressed soft kisses into her hair and then not so soft kisses against her mouth. "You smell so good!" he sighed. His kiss tasted of brandy, Finn who rarely drank. Well if he'd drunk to forget or relax, it hadn't worked; she could feel the tension coiled in his lean frame. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Finn?" He released her and rolled over onto his back. "Maeve and I had ? we fought. You don't want to hear this. I'll tell you about it in the morning." Emily took a deep breath. "No, Finn, tell me about it now." She sat up and reached for the light. "No!" An urgent hand curled around her wrist. "Don't turn on the light, Emily. Please." "Okay." Perhaps he doesn't want to see my face when he tells me...? "Maeve told me tonight that's she going to New Zealand with this guy she's been seeing ? the baby's father. They're talking marriage?." "New Zealand ? that's a long way away." Emily felt physically sick anticipating what was coming next. His laugh was bitter. "Tell me about it. God, Emily!" he groaned suddenly. "She's taking Adam to the other side of the world and I'll never see him again!" CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "Adam!" Of course, Adam. Emily's misery dissolved, leaving behind only the memory of how bad it would be to lose Finn. Why hadn't that element of Maeve leaving the country even occurred to her? In her eagerness to think of the very worst scenario, she'd totally failed to consider how traumatic it would be for a dedicated father like Finn to be deprived of his son ? not to mention what it would do to the little boy! An image of Finn and Adam, their two dark heads close together as they discussed the finer points of penalty-taking came into her head, and she blinked back the rush of hot emotional tears that stung her eyes. The total wrongness of separating them hit her.
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She reached for the light once more and blinking, turned to her husband. The haggard expression on his handsome face shocked her deeply and increased her escalating sense of outrage. "She can't take Adam away!" Emily declared hotly. "You can't let her, Finn." A militant light entered her narrowed eyes. "We must fight her." Finn listened with fascination to this unexpected declaration of war from his wife. "You're amazing, totally amazing!" he exclaimed wonderingly. The more he thought about his five-feet-two-inch wife being prepared to take on all comers on his behalf, the more he liked it. "My tigress," he teased. "And you present such a gentle, mild-mannered image to the world." Catching hold of her slim wrists he drew her down until she lay on top of him, her hands resting on the pillow on either side of his face. Her hair brushed against his chest and, against all odds after what had happened, he felt himself becoming aroused. "She can't do it, can she?" Emily wondered, her smooth brow furrowed as she wriggled against him. "I mean, you're Adam's father, you have rights. Surely, legally...?" An expression she couldn't work out flickered across Finn's face. "Actually, there might be problems." He cupped her face between his hands. "Problems?" Emily turned her head to kiss the inside of his palm. "Unfortunately, I didn't contest Maeve's sole custody when we got divorced." "But you're not just going to let her...!" "No, I'm not just going to let her," Finn confirmed, his expression implacable as he contemplated the fight ahead. "But you have to understand, Emily, that things might get ? ugly. Stuff might come out that I'd prefer didn't, things that... God, this couldn't come at a worse time." "For the business?" "For us personally!" he corrected. "The last thing you need right now is to get embroiled in a legal slanging match. "You mustn't let my being pregnant influence your decision!" "Adam's not your child, I thought you might resent?" Emily's eyes widened indignantly. "As if I would! No, you must do whatever it takes to keep him in the country." "I will, Emily, I will." Emily was relieved to see the chilling expression on his face fade as his eyes slid to hers. "But, right now?" He slid a hand under the hem of the short night-dress she was wearing and spread his fingers over the firm resilient roundness of her bottom. "Yes?" She nodded her head eagerly. "Yes, please." The next morning, slipping quietly from her sleeping husband's side, Emily crept into the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the deep bathtub and punched in a number on the cell phone. "Hello, Maeve, this is Emily. I think we should talk."
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CHAPTER NINETEEN "Can we go to the park, Dad?" Adam Lynch bounced his football on the pavement and looked hopefully up at his father. Finn intercepted the ball before it bounced into the road. He squatted down to look sternly into a pair of eyes very similar to his own. "What have I told you about playing with the ball in the street?" "Sorry, Dad." Finn grinned and ruffled the boy's dark hair; it was impossible to stay mad with Adam for long. "What'll your mom say if you get muddy in the park?" "I don't expect she'll notice. James said she's not very well ? she must be sick, because I heard her crying this morning." "Is that right. What do you think of James?" Finn wondered how Adam was going to feel caught in the middle of two warring parents. It was hard not to question whether there wasn't an element of truth in the accusations of selfishness Maeve had flung at him. Adam's freckled nose wrinkled thoughtfully as he considered the matter. "Oh, he's all right," he conceded. "He can't play football as good as you, though," he added loyally, giving his father's hand a comforting squeeze. *** Maeve opened the door to Emily minutes after she'd closed it behind Finn. "You'd better come in." Defensive rather than hostile, Emily decided as she followed Maeve through to the drawing room of the elegant Regency terrace. "Did Finn ask you to come? Because if?" "No, he doesn't know I'm here." Emily soothed her conscience with the thought that she hadn't lied to Finn. She had just let him assume, when they'd arranged to meet at the hospital before lunch, that she was going to spend the morning in bed. One of Maeve's arched brows rose. "Are you feeling better?" "I didn't come to talk about me." "Somehow I didn't think you did." Maeve smiled edgily. "Stand if you like, but I'm going to sit down." Emily didn't follow her example. "How could you do it to him, Maeve?" she exclaimed glaring at the older woman. "You know how much he loves Adam!" Maeve flushed and lowered her eyes. "Of course I know," she gritted. She lifted her head and Emily was amazed to see the sparkle of tears on her pale lashes. "But I'm allowed a life of my own! It's all right for you to look sneery!" she cried. "You've got Finn, and don't tell me you wouldn't do whatever it takes to keep him!"
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Emily shook her head. "Finn would never ask me to do this," she proclaimed with total conviction. "I still don't see how you... Did you ever love him, Maeve?" The blonde sniffed. "Not when we got married," she admitted, much to Emily's amazement. "But it's hard to live with Finn and not fall in love with him a bit...well, maybe more than a bit. But," she said drawing a deep breath, "it wasn't to be." "I sympathize with your position, but taking a child away from his father, no matter what the courts say, is a wicked thing to do." The doorbell started chiming, but neither woman took any notice. "That may be so, Emily, but Finn isn't Adam's father, is he?" She saw Emily's face and paled. "God, I didn't mean... Forget I said anything." CHAPTER TWENTY "Forget?" Emily echoed hoarsely. Maeve gave a sigh of annoyance. "I'll have to answer that, Emily," Maeve said, referring to the doorbell. "They're not going away." The next couple of minutes were a total blur for Emily, who stood there wondering if it was her or Maeve who had gone mad. How could Finn not be Adam's father? "Maeve said you were here." Finn's eyes were fixed warily on his wife's face. "Why are you here?" Like someone punch-drunk, Emily focused her eyes on the tall figure that had entered the room. "You were taking Adam out for the morning." "Adam fell and grazed his knees," he explained tersely. "Maeve's doing the necessary." "Are you Adam's father, Finn?" Finn took a deep breath before meeting her bewildered eyes. "I'm glad you know. I feel as if it's always been there between us." "Then it's true! I always knew you were holding something back." But not this, never this! "I thought that you and Maeve were still?" She shook her head. "I don't understand... How?" "Liam, my younger brother?" "The one who died in the climbing accident?" Finn nodded. "Maeve's family only lived a couple of streets away from ours in Dublin. But it wasn't until they both came over here to university that she and Liam got together. Nobody back home knew about it, and neither did I until Maeve came to me after she discovered she was pregnant." "So?" She shook her head. Her brain seemed to be functioning very slowly. "You married Maeve, she came to work with you, and you let everyone think that Adam was yours." Finn nodded. "It seemed the obvious thing to do. The baby was a Lynch, he needed a father, and Maeve had no money, no job, and a family that would very likely disown her." "Surely not!" Emily gasped horrified.
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"Maeve's family have very strong views about sex outside marriage." "Poor Maeve," Emily said, and meant it. "In a really good romance I suppose you'd have fallen in love.?" Not if I had any influence with the author, Emily added silently. "Me and Maeve!" Finn looked amused and shook his head. "We agreed early on that for Adam's sake, absolutely nobody should ever know the truth," he continued gravely. "How would Adam feel if he discovered one day that his loving parents had never even shared a bed?" "You were never even lovers!" "Never, but discreet liaisons were permitted in our rules," he revealed dryly. "I was no monk." "And love?" she whispered vulnerably. "That was discussed, though when it happened, I wasn't really prepared." He couldn't recall those months of raw frustration without an inner shudder. "When did it happen, Finn?" I've told you, the moment I saw you." "I didn't think you meant it literally! It was the same for me," she revealed shyly. "And I felt terribly guilty because you were married. I don't think I stopped being guilty until just now. It's such a relief!" She sighed. "Then you forgive me, Emily?" he asked warily. "What's to forgive?" She stepped into his open arms. "Promise me one thing, Finn ? no more secrets?" "How," he began, "do you feel about sealing the deal with a kiss?" "Don't stop on my account," Maeve said dryly as the entwined couple drew apart. "I just wanted to say that you were right. I'll be telling James that I'm staying here. I know he loves me, and I know he'll stay. We're happy together ? and Adam will be happy, too. We'll all make sure of it." As Finn aimed a smile at Maeve, she continued, "No, Finn, don't thank me, thank Emily." Finn turned to Emily, his eyes blazing with love. "I can't wait to start," he admitted. "My first, last, and only love," he whispered.
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The Heart of Riverbend by Judith Arnold You are now entering Riverbend?the kind of place where everyone knows your name ? and your business. Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Leaning against a flagpole in the heart of Riverbend, Indiana, Tony Viera understood what it meant to be in the middle of nowhere. He was somewhere, of course. He was standing in the shadow of the courthouse in Riverbend?s main square, his gaze fixed on the drugstore across the street. In a little while, he?d pay a courtesy call to the local police station to make sure the cops didn?t have any problems with his taking care of the business that had brought him here. But first he wanted to get a sense of where he was. The middle of nowhere. The clean, spring-fresh scent of the air, the sporadic traffic, the wide-open blue of the sky ? it was like an alien landscape. Tony was a New Yorker, used to pollution, rumbling buses, bustling pedestrians, the vitality that electrified the city?s streets. Here, the tranquility seemed otherworldly. Peter Linnett was in Riverbend ? quite possibly in the drugstore. Tony?s boss had told him to find the kid and, if necessary, bring him back to New York. The whole thing shouldn?t take more than a day ? which was good, because Tony didn?t think he could stand spending any more time than he had to in this one-horse town. The drugstore door swung open. He started forward, energy coiling inside him. Not that he expected Peter to stroll outside and straight into his waiting arms, but as a police detective, he was perpetually ready for anything and everything. The person who emerged wasn?t Peter ? unless Peter had undergone a sex-change operation in the past couple of months. It was a young woman in a crisp blouse and slacks. Maybe five-five, taffy-colored hair framing a heart-shaped face, a cute pink mouth and a faraway look in her wide-set hazel eyes. She held a small canvas bag with a zipper-lock, the kind of bag shopkeepers used for carrying cash to the bank. Propping the door open, she turned and shouted something over her shoulder. A clerk, he figured. If she worked for Peter Linnett?s father, she might know the kid. It was so quiet he could actually hear the lilt of her laughter as she backed away from the door. Half-turning, she was still laughing, shaking her head as she stepped off the curb between two parked cars. She obviously hadn?t noticed the white van cruising down the road, with Sterling Hardware & Building Supply painted across its side. It wasn?t going too fast, and neither was she, but someone was going to have to stop moving to avoid a disaster. The driver of the van probably couldn?t see the woman slipping out into the street between the parked cars, and she was still chuckling at whatever someone inside the store had said to her, and ? "No!" Tony roared, sprinting toward the street. Too late. With a muted thud, the woman bounced off the edge of the van?s bumper and fell to the asphalt. She lay there, perfectly still. Deathly still.... By the time Tony reached the woman who?d been struck by the van, she was sitting up, dusting the palms of her hands and examining one of them, which was bleeding from a long scrape. "I?m fine," she insisted to the driver of the van. "Really, Mitch. I?m okay."
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"I?m sorry," he said, sounding far from reassured. "The sun was glaring, and you just bolted from behind that car ?" "I mean it, Mitch. I?m fine." Tony couldn?t believe what he was hearing. Why was she absolving the driver? In New York City, she?d be warning that her lawyer would be in touch. She?d be moaning that her neck hurt, her back, her leg, and asking him how much insurance he carried. She certainly wouldn?t be saying she was fine. "Don?t move," he ordered her as she bent her legs and brushed small bits of gravel from her knees. "You could be seriously hurt." "That?s what I?m thinking," the driver of the van agreed as he and Tony hunkered down next to her. "How?s your head, Diane? How?s your vision?" "Just don?t move," Tony repeated. "Oh, please!" She laughed ? a sweet, musical sound that seemed as unreal as everything else in this hick town. "Stop fussing over me. It?s just a scratch." She displayed her palm, which was scraped up past her wrist. Tony pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around her hand. Back home, cops were always cautious when dealing with open wounds. But she looked healthy and wholesome, and he wasn?t back home. "I feel terrible," the driver mumbled. "Really, Mitch, it was my fault. Is the money pouch somewhere?" "Right here," the driver said, holding up the canvas bag. "I think we should report this to the police." "Report what? I walked into your van, lost my balance and got a scratch. It?s embarrassing. Why bring the police into it?" Because that was what police were for, Tony wanted to say ? although he had to admit that in New York City, no cop would waste time writing this one up. They were too busy dealing with traffic fatalities and serious crimes to worry about a woman in need of a little gauze and tape. And he shouldn?t be wasting his time with her, either. He was here to do a job. He couldn?t get sidetracked by a pretty woman with a bleeding hand. "I?ll take you to see Dr. Bennett," the driver insisted. "I don?t need a doctor. I can get this cleaned up inside." She gestured toward the drugstore, then rubbed her thumb over the square of white linen wrapped around her hand. She lifted her gaze to Tony. "You should see a doctor," he urged her, his voice unexpectedly husky. "You really do need to have Dr. Bennett check you out," the driver agreed. "I?ll run you over." He winced. "Bad choice of words." "Maybe you should file a police report," Tony suggested. "I can take her to the doctor." And then he?d get back to work.
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"Forget the police," the woman argued. "Do me a favor, Mitch, and bring the money pouch back in to Stan. Tell him I?ll go to the bank later." Once again she turned to Tony, and a small sigh escaped her. Her hand tightened around his handkerchief. "Do you really want to take me to the doctor?" He really wanted not to want to. He really wanted not to have any interest in her at all. But he couldn?t seem to help himself. "Yeah." "All right. Let?s go." He felt a combination of relief, regret, and the certainty that he was pursuing something better left alone. A faint smile curved her lips, and he knew that whatever it was, however wrongheaded it was, he had to pursue it.... Ordinarily, Diane didn?t get into cars with strange men. She might be absent-minded enough to walk into Mitch Sterling?s truck while it coasted down Elm Street, but she wasn?t stupid. Yet this man was...different. His manner, his accent, the way he walked, the way his long, athletic legs shaped his jeans and his battered leather jacket stretched over his broad shoulders ? everything about him shouted that he wasn?t like anyone she?d ever met before. Besides, he wasn?t a complete stranger. He?d told her his name. "Tony Viera," she murmured, letting the syllables roll over her tongue. He shot her a glance, then eased out of the parking lot. "What?" "It?s a nice name." "Diane Ellis is a nice name, too," he said. It was a pathetically boring name, but she appreciated his lie. "Turn right at the corner," she directed him, squeezing the soft linen handkerchief he?d wrapped around her hand. "Dr. Bennett?s office is just a couple of blocks down." He said nothing for a minute, then: "You work at the drugstore?" "I?m a pharmacist," she told him. "Really? You run the place?" She shook her head. "Stan Linnett owns the business. He?s planning to retire soon, though, and he wants me to take over. I guess I?m thinking about it. He had hoped his son would run the place, but Peter has no interest in pharmacy." Tony sent her another look, this one intense. "What does Peter do?" he asked. She wondered why he appeared all that fascinated by the mundane details of Riverbend?s pharmacy. "He just moved back to town a few months ago. He was living in New York City ? your neck of the woods." Tony had told her he lived there and was in Riverbend running a professional errand, which sounded intriguing. "Right now, he?s helping out at the store. He?s a sweetheart." "Is he?"
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"He?s like a brother to me." Sometimes she wished he was like more than a brother. She adored Stan, adored the store ? and adored Peter. They?d grown up together, and they?d always been close friends. She wanted to believe they might eventually fall in love; eligible men were few and far between in Riverbend, and she really did care for Peter. But she never felt around him the way she felt around... Tony Viera. A man she didn?t even know. Yet sitting beside him in his rental car make her pulse throb. His dark, penetrating gaze, his long, graceful fingers, the raspy undertone of his voice stirred something inside her, something thrilling and risky. "That?s the building," she said, pointing it out. He pulled up the driveway to the lot behind the building, shut off the engine and touched her shoulder before she could reach for the door handle. "Don?t move," he said. "Let me help you out of the car." She didn?t need his help. All she had was a scraped hand and a sore knee. Yet his touch held her in place. She felt it through her sleeve, through her skin, through her entire body. It made her eyes mist and her head feel light. Her dizziness was undoubtedly an aftershock of the accident. That the world seemed to tilt when Tony gazed at her, that her breath grew shallow, that the light pressure of his fingers on her shoulder had a greater impact on her than her collision with Mitch?s van had, only proved that she?d been shaken up by her brush with death. She didn?t need Tony?s help. She didn?t need him at all. She could take care of herself. She was a little dazed, a little battered, but ? really, she was fine. So why did she not want him to leave? Less than an hour later, Tony found himself inside the drugstore with Diane. Her hand and wrist were wrapped in white gauze, and she was so cheerful he couldn?t believe she?d been hit by a van that morning. Once again, he wondered at the utter strangeness of this sleepy village. Not only did the town itself seem otherworldly, but it was clearly inhabited by aliens, creatures who could bounce back after a traffic accident and ask for no sympathy, no special treatment, no financial compensation. Or maybe it was just Diane. Maybe there was something unusual about her. As soon as she?d stepped into the store, the woman running the cash register, the silver-haired guy behind the prescriptions counter at the rear, and a thinner, blonder, younger version of the silver-haired guy all swooped down on her, demanding to know how she was. Her laughter rose like bubbles above their clamoring voices. "I?m fine! Dr. Bennett checked me from top to bottom. Has anyone talked to Mitch? Is he okay?" "Why wouldn?t he be okay?" the cashier exclaimed. "He wasn?t the one hit by a truck." "He was hit by a pedestrian. I hit him. Isn?t that right, Tony?" She turned her luminous eyes to him. The others looked at him, as well. "You hit his truck," he confirmed. "His truck is made of steel. You?re made of flesh and blood. I?m sure you sustained more damage than the truck did." "I hardly sustained any damage at all. This is Tony Viera," she introduced him to the others. "Tony, this is Millie." She gestured toward the woman. "This is my boss, Stan ?" she pointed to the silver-haired man " ? and this is Peter. Peter, Tony?s from your old haunt ? New York City." Tony had already pegged the blond kid as Peter Linnett. Mid-20s, like Diane, a bit on the skinny side, and deceptively innocent looking. Tony bet Diane and the others would have a hard time believing the trouble Peter had gotten into in his "old haunt." But Tony wasn?t surprised. After nine years in the NYPD, nothing surprised him ? except, maybe, the idea of a woman getting bumped by a van and not demanding compensation.
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"I hope you aren?t planning to come back to work today," Stan warned Diane once everyone was done shaking hands. "You?re taking the day off." "I?m fine." "Give yourself the day, see if any mysterious aches and pains develop. Did Julian prescribe a painkiller?" "I don?t have any pain. He suggested ibuprofen if I need it." "Well, you?re not working today," Stan said firmly. "I?m giving you a paid day off. Only a fool would turn down an offer like that." Diane considered, then glanced up at Tony. "I?m not a fool. I?ll take the day off. Let me just bring the cash over to the bank." "Peter took care of it. Go on, get out of here. And take it easy, would you? Anything doesn?t feel right, you go straight back to Julian Bennett." Shaking her head and grinning, Diane turned and started toward the door. Halfway there, she paused and glanced at Tony again. Her eyes seemed to ask him to join her. He had Peter Linnett within arm?s reach. He could interview the guy and determine if he should be brought back to New York now or allowed to stay in Riverbend until his testimony was needed at trial. This was why Tony had come to Riverbend. But for some crazy reason, following Diane Ellis out into the sunny Riverbend day seemed far more important than doing his job. He knew what would happen with Linnett, but he didn?t know what would happen with Diane. And he desperately wanted to find out. It was a good thing he?d followed her outside, too ? because as soon as the door swung shut and the bright midday sun hit her in the face, she swayed on her feet, pressed her bandaged hand to her forehead and fell in a slow, graceful swoon. Diane felt arms around her, holding her. She couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything but those strong, safe arms, one under her shoulders and the other under her knees, and his firm, warm chest along her side. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't what?" Tony's mouth was so close to hers, his breath brushed her cheek as he spoke. "Don't take me to the pharmacy." "I'm taking you to this bench," he said, and abruptly she felt the flat surfaces of the bench against her back and bottom. "Open your eyes." She opened them. Tony's rugged, rough-hewn face loomed above her. "I'm going to push your head between your knees," he told her. "No, I ?" He flattened his palm against her nape and pressed down. Unable to fight him, she doubled over and let him press her head down. Her vision gradually grew clearer and the strange thumping in her skull faded.
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Once she could make out the loose pebbles on the pavement beneath her feet, she tried to lift her head. Reluctantly, he let her up. His hand lingered on her neck for a moment, and his fingers stroked through her hair when he finally drew away. "Don't take me to the pharmacy," she said again. "They'll make me go back to Dr. Bennett." "Maybe you should." "No. I was just a little lightheaded for a minute. I'm okay now." She gazed at him, praying he'd recognize that she was all right. She hated being fussed over ? by Stan and Millie and Peter, and by Tony Viera. She took pride in her self-sufficiency, even though her friend Nora often warned her that her insistence on taking care of herself scared men away. As if there were so many men in Riverbend she had to worry about scaring away. Her tranquil hometown wasn't exactly a swinging place. While Diane wasn't a swinger, she had to admit that if there were more single men her age in the area, she might put some effort into behaving less independently ? if it would make any difference. It probably wouldn't. And anyway, Diane wasn't good at acting. She was who she was, and Riverbend was what it was. She breathed deeply. Tony's chin rose and fell with her breaths, as if he was monitoring them. "I'm okay," she assured him. "You don't like anyone helping you, do you?" "Not when I don't need help." "You shouldn't be alone right now," he advised. She smiled, hoping to put his mind at ease. "Should I hire a babysitter?" He didn't return her smile. "That's not a bad idea." She had to check the impulse to hire him. He had business to attend to in town, and he was a stranger, a good Samaritan who'd already let her take up too much of his time. "I'll get Peter to keep me company," she said, aware that Peter was her second choice. "I'll stay with you," Tony said resolutely. "At least until I'm sure you're not going to keel over again." Did he not trust Peter to take good care of her? Or did he honestly want to spend more time with her? Did he feel the same shiver of awareness she felt when their eyes met? "You should go home and take it easy," he continued. "I'll drive you." "Are you kidding? I just got handed a vacation day. I don't want to waste it sitting around at home. Maybe we can have a picnic lunch down by the river. It's such a beautiful day." He seemed perplexed. "Your day began with your getting knocked down by a van. What's so beautiful about that?" "I got knocked down, but I got back up again. That's as beautiful as it gets." He contemplated her for a long moment. "What if you faint again?"
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"You'll be there to catch me," she said, searching his face. "Won't you?" He looked undecided, reluctant...trapped. As if he couldn't bear to gaze at her any more, he turned to stare at the courthouse across the street, his eyes squinting against the sunlight. "For now." He sighed. "I'll be there for now." And then he would leave. She knew he would, and the truth pained her. Men like Tony didn't stay in Riverbend. They didn't stay in Diane's life. That was why she'd learned to catch herself if she was ever at risk of falling. She remembered the sensation of Tony's arms around her and realized she was already at risk. But he'd be gone soon. She wasn't going to let herself fall. Tony drove her to the cozy cottage she told him she rented. She apologized for its size, but it had three times the floor space of his efficiency apartment in the East Village ? and he?d bet her rent was a third of his. He thought about lecturing Diane on the dangers of inviting strange men into her home, but somehow her trust seemed perfectly natural in a place like Riverbend. She was better off trusting him than trusting Peter Linnett. He leaned against the counter while she prepared tuna fish sandwiches and packed them into a tote, along with apples, and bottles of iced tea. Pulling an old blanket from a shelf in a closet by the back door, she sent him a dazzling smile and said, "all set." Her movements seemed sure, her footing steady. If she fainted again, he?d take her to the doctor, no matter how loudly she protested. And then he?d clear out. He?d been a fool to volunteer to stay with her ? and not only because he didn?t want her trusting her no-good buddy Peter. The longer he spent with her, the more he... He wasn?t going to finish that thought. She was a single woman who lived in a poky little hamlet and dreamed of running the town pharmacy. He?d eat lunch with her and then take care of business. And when he was done, he wouldn?t have to worry about her trusting Peter anymore. They drove to a place called Riverside Park, along the river?s edge. The grass in the park was a new green. Leaves budded and unfurled along the tree branches. Not far from where they spread Diane?s blanket, a woman played catch with two preschoolers, the colorful ball so big the children had to spread their arms wide to catch it. They chased across the grass, squealing with laughter. The river was silver, smelling of springtime. Tony thought about the rivers surrounding Manhattan. They were a glum gray, spanned by massive steel bridges that carried millions of cars in and out of the city. He couldn?t think of anywhere in New York as peaceful as this. "How?s your sandwich?" she asked. "Good." She seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, so he added, "It?s so quiet here." "I?ve never been to New York, but Peter told me it?s noisy day and night. At two in the morning, he would hear traffic cruising under his window, and sirens, and people shouting to each other in the street." "You get used to the noise," Tony explained. "Peter never did."
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"I don?t think I could ever get used to this silence." He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth. She looked wistful. "I find it soothing." "Have you ever lived anywhere else?" "When I was in college. I wasn?t planning to come back to Riverbend after I graduated, but Stan offered me a summer job. Then, when I got here, he said he was planning to retire in a few years, and once he did, the town was going to need a pharmacist." She smiled and shrugged. "What can I say? This place is my home." Tony couldn?t understand why a young, attractive woman would want to bury herself here. "What do you do on weekends?" he asked. She smiled, obviously able to figure out what he was getting at. "Riverbend isn?t a hot spot," she allowed. "But I?ve got friends here. I?m sure someday I?ll meet someone and settle down. It?s a great place to raise children." The discussion was getting too personal, but he couldn?t stop himself. "You?d like that? To settle down here and raise a family?" "I?d love it." Her words held so much passion, it was almost contagious. His Manhattan neighborhood was no place for kids. They wouldn?t have such clean air to breathe, such safe, peaceful parks to play in. Too bad he was a confirmed city guy. If he ever settled down the way Diane dreamed of settling down, he couldn?t imagine doing it in a place like Riverbend. He wasn?t going to settle down, anyway. He was a bachelor. A cop. Not exactly planting-stakes-and-raisingkids material. "What kind of work do you do?" she asked. He pulled an apple from her tote and took a bite, stalling for time. If he told her, she?d ask what he was doing in town, and if he told her he?d come to investigate her dear friend Peter, she?d hate him. He was only doing his job, and it wasn?t his fault that the Linnett kid had gotten caught up in something bad, but... He wasn?t ready to have Diane hate him. Not yet. "I?m a safety consultant." It wasn?t a complete lie. "A safety consultant?" Her eyes grew round. "What does that entail?" "Keeping people from doing unsafe things." "Like walking in front of moving vehicles?" She laughed. "Where were you when I needed you?" "I was right there," he murmured. "Wishing I could keep you safe." Actually, he wasn?t sure he wanted to keep her safe. One part of him wanted her to be his connection to Peter, and another part wanted her to open her soul to him as willingly as she?d opened her house. Just by being with her, he threatened her safety. He wondered if she knew it. He wondered if she knew and didn?t care. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her?.
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For one brief, crazy moment, Diane was certain Tony was going to kiss her. His gaze narrowed on her mouth and she found herself unable to breathe as he leaned toward her, lifting his hand to her cheek. But all he did was tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then he settled back and turned to stare at the river. Her heart fluttered against her ribs and she sighed. For heaven?s sake, she was acting like a silly schoolgirl. She was 25 years old, years away from sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed. Of course, she?d never been kissed by a sexy security consultant from New York City. Nora would have urged her to go ahead and kiss Tony if he lacked the initiative to kiss her. "The guy?s being a gentleman," she?d say. "That doesn?t mean you have to be a lady." Diane had never considered herself particularly ladylike, but she wasn?t overly aggressive, either. Especially when the object of her aggression was so unlike any man she?d ever known. "What sort of security work brought you to Riverbend?" she asked when it became clear he had no intention of kissing her. He continued to gaze at the river as he munched on his apple. The motion of his mouth transfixed her, his lips thin, his jaw strong. He chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. "I can?t discuss it." "Why not?" "Security reasons," he said, a wry smile twisting his mouth. He?s a spy. The possibility struck her like a poke to the stomach ? and then she decided it was ridiculous. Riverbend had no secrets worth stealing. But she couldn?t shake the feeling Tony wasn?t telling her the complete truth about himself. "Are you going to be here a long time?" "I hope ?" Turning to her, he frowned and shook his head. "I was going to say I hope not. But..." "But?" "But spending a while in all this ? this silence... I don?t know." He seemed to struggle against a grin. "Maybe it would do me some good." "There?s more to Riverbend than silence," she pointed out. "Like what?" "I?ll show you," she said impulsively. Then she bit her lip, wondering if her offer had been wise. If he did have ulterior motives for being in Riverbend, he might have just set her up, subtly enticing her into giving him a tour of the town. His long, simmering looks and the casually deliberate way he?d brushed her hair back from her cheek might have been ploys to gain entrée into the community. He was softening her up in the hope that she?d unwittingly help him. Her imagination was obviously in overdrive. Maybe she was still in shock from her accident. He reached toward her and brushed that errant lock of hair behind her ear again, and she realized how very much she wanted to kiss him. Just the friction of his fingertips against her cheek made her wish she was braver, brave enough to go after what she wanted. Tony Viera.
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Peter Linnett finished restocking the shelves with deodorant. He?d never understand why women needed a dozen different brands to choose from. They all served the same purpose. That stranger from New York bothered him. He wheeled the truck to the next shelf, folded back the flaps on the next carton, and replenished the supply of face creams, making sure each bottle and jar was tagged and facing forward on the shelf. While his hands managed the stock, his mind wandered back to Diane?s friend. He racked his memory but couldn?t recall anyone from New York named Tony Viera. He?d dealt with only a couple of guys, and he didn?t think either of them had mentioned Viera. Still, Peter was worried. Why would someone from New York suddenly appear in Riverbend? At the front of the store, he heard Millie describing Diane?s accident to the Reverend Kendall. Anyone who ventured into the store to pick up a prescription or a spool of dental floss had to hear all about it ? Mitch Sterling hitting Diane with his van, Dr. Julian Bennett bandaging her, the handsome, dark-haired fellow from New York who?d stuck like glue to her throughout the ordeal. Why had Viera glued himself to Diane? Was he trying to get to Peter through her? Or was Peter just being paranoid? He?d done things he shouldn?t have done in New York. Surely putting in drudge time at his father?s drug store in this mind-numbing town was adequate punishment. He didn?t need some creep from New York hunting him down and causing trouble. "Peter!" his father hollered. "Could you run this prescription over to Kate McMann at the bookstore? One of her daughters has an ear infection, and I told her we?d get this to her so she wouldn?t have to leave the store." Sure, Peter thought, placing the last jar of vitamin-e moisturizer on the shelf and marching to the prescription counter. I just love being your errand boy, Dad. Penance, he reminded himself as he took the bag from his father and left the pharmacy. Maybe if Peter performed enough penance, ran enough errands, kept his head down and his nose clean, he?d get lucky and that guy from New York would disappear. If he didn?t...Peter had to warn Diane somehow. He had to protect her. On the slim chance that Viera was using her to get to Peter.... He wouldn?t let her be used like that. He?d seen the way she?d looked at Viera, the way her eyes had glowed, and her smile. She didn?t date much ? who was she going to date in Riverbend? ? and the sudden attention of a tall, dark guy in a leather jacket and jeans could turn her head. She was naïve. She didn?t understand the way men used women. At best, Viera would amuse himself with her for a while and then take off. At worst, he?d exploit Diane?s trusting nature to get to Peter. Peter didn?t even want to think about that possibility. All he knew was what he sensed in his gut: Tony Viera was bad news. He was in Riverbend and someone was going to end up hurt. Diane or Peter, or maybe both of them. Peter just knew it. Tony had never seen a grain elevator before. In fact, he?d never seen grain, except in bags in the organicfoods section of his neighborhood grocery store. As he navigated his rental car through Riverbend, Diane pointed out the acreage to him, the fields breaking with the new crop, tiny dots of green poking out of the tilled soil.
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The air carried a tangy scent, and when he asked her what he was smelling she laughed and said, "dirt." He?d grown up in Queens, and now he lived in Manhattan. What did he know about the smell of dirt and the endlessness of a Midwestern sky? "They irrigate mostly in the evenings," she was saying. "If you irrigate in the morning, the water evaporates too fast. In the evening, it has a chance to soak into the ground. They won?t be doing too much irrigating this year, though. We?ve had a pretty wet spring. It?s been wonderful." "Wonderful?" He snorted. "People become cranky when it rains in New York." Cranky enough to get into fistfights over the scarcity of cabs. Cranky enough to curse at and shove each other, to elbow one another as they hurried down the puddle-filled sidewalks. A nastiness settled over the city when it rained. The homicide rate dropped, but the domestic assault rate soared when people were trapped indoors. "I don?t think I?d like New York very much," Diane said. "It?s a great city," Tony argued. "The capital of the world." "I know it?s got good restaurants, and the theater. I?d love to see one of those big Broadway musicals. Other than that, though ? it just sounds awfully crowded. And noisy." "There?s an energy in the city," he tried to explain, turning the car away from the grain elevator and steering in the direction of Diane?s outstretched hand. Somewhere at the back of his mind lurked the thought that he had a job to do. But as long as Diane kept gazing at him, he couldn?t seem to focus on his work. "Riverbend has an energy, too," she said. He grinned. "Enough energy to put an insomniac into a coma. This place is dead, Diane." "It is not! It?s full of energy! There?s the energy of the rotating seasons, the cycles of life. And the energy of friendships. Everyone knows everyone here. We look out for each other. We help each other. Even on the coldest day of the winter, Riverbend is warm, because the people care about each other." He was aware of another kind of warmth right in this car. It was the warmth of Diane?s passion, her convictions. She believed in her quiet rural town, believed in it so deeply he could only imagine how deeply she felt other things, how passionate she might be. Her warmth heated him. It made him want to taste that passion. He imagined it would be a flavor as exotic as everything else in Riverbend. They?d reached a stand of trees by the river, and he pulled off the road and killed the engine. "This is a really pretty part of the river," she said. "Let?s get out and explore." He got out of the car, but the river wasn?t what he wanted to explore. When Diane met him near the water?s edge, he gathered her hand in his and pulled her to him. Just one taste, he thought ? one small taste of Diane?s warmth, and then he?d take care of business. This isn?t love, Diane whispered to herself an instant before Tony?s lips touched hers. I hardly even know him. It can?t be love. But it was something. Something deep and dangerous and exciting. Something that had never happened to her before, and wasn?t likely to happen to her again if she stayed in Riverbend. It was something wicked and wild, and she wanted it.
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His mouth covered hers, possessive and persuasive. His hands were large and hard, one still clutching her uninjured hand and the other cupping her shoulder, sliding under her hair, stroking the skin at her nape. Heat rippled in waves down her back. Her breath escaped her on a sigh and she leaned into him, letting him coax her mouth open with his tongue. No one had ever kissed her so seductively before, so thoroughly. The heat built inside her, melting her, making her want much, much more. I hardly even know him, she thought, but it didn?t seem to matter. She?d been hit by a van that morning, and miraculously she?d survived with just a scratch and a few bruises. She wanted to celebrate. She wanted to revel in her aliveness. Kissing Tony Viera was a revel, and a revelation. When she thought about it later, she?d probably realize what a foolish thing it was to do...but nothing that felt so good could be that foolish. He was the one to break the kiss. As he pulled back, she averted her face and struggled to breathe normally. It almost escaped her that he was out of breath, too, his hand trembling slightly as he let it slide out from under her hair. "I?m sorry," he whispered. She lifted her head to gaze at him. "I?m not." He brought his hand forward to trace the point of her chin, the edge of her lower lip. It took all her willpower not to nip his finger between her teeth. "I?ve got business to take care of," he said, though his light, sensual caress was hardly businesslike. "I know." "And once that?s done...I?m out of here." "I know." She appreciated his honesty in pointing out that this kiss wasn?t going to lead to anything lasting. But that didn?t seem to matter to her. Every cell in her body had been altered by his kiss. Her blood sang with excitement. Her skin tingled. Her mouth, her breasts, her soul wanted more. He wasn?t offering more. "How long before you?re ?out of here??" she asked. He closed his eyes and chuckled. "Don?t tempt me, Diane." She?d never thought of herself as a temptress before. The wanton temptress of Riverbend. Sure. "I only meant ? as long as you?re in town, we could...well, maybe have dinner together or something." "I don?t think so." "Why not?" When he didn?t answer, she confessed, "I like you, Tony." "That?s because you don?t know me." He pushed away and stalked back to the car. He hesitated at the door and turned back to her. "Trust me, Diane ? if you knew me, you wouldn?t like me at all."
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With that, he got in, leaving her hurt and disappointed ? and wondering why it was that the security expert made her want to ignore her own security, toss caution aside, and find out what would happen if she kissed him again. Maybe her brush with death had made her recognize how much she wanted to live. She loved Riverbend. It was home. But she wanted the excitement Tony brought with him, the risk, the madness of not settling down, not settling. Suddenly, the life she?d always imagined for herself seemed tame and drab. One kiss from Tony had changed her even more than her run-in with Mitch?s van that morning. She?d survived his kiss, and now she wanted to live.... After dropping off Kate McMann?s prescription at the bookstore, Peter didn?t head directly back to the pharmacy. Instead, he detoured to the courthouse to find Diane?s friend Nora. Nora was his friend, too, sort of. He?d dated her in high school, and they?d broken up right after the senior prom, which had led to some awkwardness. But since they shared Diane as a friend, he and Nora had managed to keep things civil. Now she was married, so he supposed their past wasn?t important anymore. She worked as an administrative assistant at the courthouse, pushing papers around and keeping the bureaucracy chugging along. She?d put on a few pounds since high school, a layer of softness. A photo of her year-old daughter stood in a frame on her desk. She wasn?t the same Nora he?d dated eight years ago, but she was someone who might know why a stranger had come all the way from New York City to spend time in Riverbend. Working at the courthouse, she had her fingers on the pulse of the town. "Hello, Peter," she greeted him, glancing up from her computer as he entered her office. "Hey, Nora." He hoped he looked confident; he didn?t want to tip her off to his concern about Viera. "Did you hear about Diane?s accident this morning?" Nora?s cheeks lost some color. "What accident?" He told her about Diane?s collision with Mitch Sterling?s van. Even after he assured Nora several times that Diane was fine, she looked horrified. "Where is she now? Are they holding her at the hospital for observation? Even if she seems fine ?" "I don?t know where she is," Peter answered, keeping his tone casual. "She went off with some guy from New York." "Who? A friend of yours?" "I never saw him before today. He witnessed the accident, accompanied her to Dr. Bennett?s office, and then took off with her." "Took off with her?" Nora frowned. "I thought maybe you?d know who he was. His name is Tony Viera." "Tony Viera? I?ve never heard Diane mention him."
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"I thought his name might have come up in the courthouse rumor mill," Peter explained. "I haven?t heard anything about him," Nora said so resolutely he had to believe her. "If you want rumors, you ought to go to the Sunnyside Café." True enough. The Sunnyside was the best place in town to pick up gossip. If Evie Mazerik, the cashier, didn?t know what was going on, she knew who would know. But he hadn?t thought of Tony Viera as someone people at the Sunnyside might be talking about. He figured Tony had come to town to settle scores with Peter, who had left New York rather than continue to do business with Leo and his partners. If Viera had anything to do with Leo, the town?s legal authorities might be up on him. "Well, maybe I?ll mosey over to the Sunnyside," he said casually. "Would you do me a favor and let me know if you hear anything about this guy?" "Tony Viera?" She jotted his name on a notepad. "Because I?m worried about Diane, you know?" What little color was left in Nora?s cheeks faded. "You don?t suppose he had anything to do with the accident, do you?" "I don?t know. All I know is, Diane left the drugstore with him and hasn?t come back." Thoroughly shaken, Nora bit her lip. "I?ll let you know if I hear anything," she promised. "And you let me know if you hear anything." "I will. Take it easy, Nora." As he stepped out of the office he saw her reaching for her phone ? probably to call Diane at home and make sure she was safe. Peter hoped she was. He hoped he was, too. He didn?t know why he?d thought Nora might be any help, but she hadn?t been, and he remained as uneasy as ever. His gut was still telling him Tony Viera was trouble. Peter trusted his gut. Tony offered to drive Diane home, but her car was parked near the pharmacy, and she asked to be let off there. She could still taste him on her lips, still feel the erotic friction of his fingers caressing her neck, and the thought of walking away from him depressed her far more than it should have. She?d survived what could have been a tragedy. She?d eaten a picnic beneath the mild May sun and cruised around town with a handsome man. Why should she be depressed? She?d never wasted time yearning for things beyond her reach. But for the first time in her life, she wanted more than what she had. She wanted a tall, dark, handsome man to sweep her off her feet the way Tony had when she?d fainted. Even more, she wanted a tall, dark, handsome man to be swept off his feet by her. Maybe she was being greedy, wishing Tony would cover her hand with his before she left his car and say, "Yes, I want to have dinner with you. And afterwards, we can go back to Riverside Park and dance under the stars. And I?ll tell you all my dreams, and you?ll tell me yours." An idiotic fantasy. Maybe she was still a little lightheaded, her brain not functioning at full strength. She watched him drive away, his parting words echoing inside her: "What happened to you today was a miracle, Diane. Don?t ever forget it."
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He?d been talking about her coming through the accident with trivial injuries. And he was right; that was a miracle. But having experienced one miracle, she wanted another. She watched as that other miracle drove down the road and out of sight. *** Riverbend?s police station was around the block from the pharmacy. Tony could have walked there. But he?d had to get away from Diane before he lost his resolve and hauled her back into his arms. He couldn?t do that. He?d be gone from her life by tomorrow, and before he left, he?d be inflicting some unpleasantness on her close friend. He couldn?t risk having the sparks flying between him and Diane catch fire. If they did, she?d wind up burned. He entered the police station. Several officers stood behind the front desk, laughing at something one of them said. Tony approached the oldest of the group, a gray-haired man with a paunch. His uniform was neatly pressed, his badge polished. "Hi," Tony said, pulling out his detective shield and displaying it for the man. "I?m Tony Viera from the New York City Police Department." The man shook his hand in the way police officers greeted their brothers and sisters ? a warm, solid clasp. "Frank Garvey. What can I do for you?" Tony pocketed his shield. "I need to talk to a Riverbend local named Peter Linnett. His name came up in an investigation I?m conducting back home." "Peter?" Frank Garvey exchanged a surprised glance with the other officers standing near him. "What investigation?" "His father is a pharmacist," Tony continued. "We believe Peter may have put some people in touch with certain wholesale drug suppliers." "Drugs? Peter?" Garvey looked stunned. "Ritalin. It?s a hot new drug on college campuses. There?s a big business in illegal prescriptions, and I?ve got reason to believe Peter was in on some action during his time in New York. I need to talk to him. If I?m not satisfied with what he has to say, I?ll bring him back to New York with me. I?d prefer to avoid a formal extradition ?" Garvey shook his head. "Peter?s a good kid." "Lots of good kids make stupid mistakes. I?m hoping that?s all this is, but we?ve got people under indictment and they?ve named him. I?d like to do this quietly if I can. Can I count on your department for help if I need it?" "Sure," Garvey said, then added, "It?s going to break his father?s heart." "I?d rather not break anyone?s heart," Tony said, the words echoing inside his soul as he recalled Diane?s sad smile when she?d climbed out of his car. Something told him that by the time he left Riverbend, someone?s heart would be broken. Diane crossed the street and entered the courthouse. If anyone could pull her out of her funk, it was Nora.
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In fact, the instant she entered Nora?s office, her friend?s face transformed from pinched and pale to ecstatic. "You?re all right!" she yelled, leaping out of her chair and racing around her desk to hug Diane. "Oh, my God, Diane ? I?ve been trying to track you down! Are you okay? What happened to your hand?" "It?s just a scratch. Dr. Bennett got a little carried away," she said, laughing at the elaborate bandage. Nora stepped back, holding Diane at arm?s length and scrutinizing her carefully. "Are you sure you?re okay?" "I?m sure." "Good." Releasing her, Nora propped her hips against her desk and crossed her arms. "So who?s this guy from New York you?ve been running around with?" Diane felt her cheeks grow warm. "How did you know about him?" "Peter stopped by a few minutes ago. He wanted to know if I knew anything about Tony Viera. He implied that people in court might be talking about him. He isn?t a criminal, is he?" "Of course not!" Diane had no way of knowing that, actually. She knew so little about him. That Peter could imply such a thing unsettled her. He was more worldly than she was. Perhaps he?d sensed something about Tony, something she?d missed because she was so smitten with him. "I sent Peter over to the Sunnyside to see what they?re saying about him there. That place is gossip central," Nora said. "I don?t think they?ll be talking about him." Diane dropped into a chair as if her heart was weighing her down. "He only just arrived in town. He?s here on business." "What kind of business?" Security consulting? "I don?t know." "You were gallivanting around town with a complete stranger? Diane, that?s not like you. No wonder Peter was worried." "He has nothing to worry about. I?m perfectly fine." Bluer than the cloudless sky outside, but otherwise she was swell. "You know what?" Nora angled her head as she studied Diane. "I think Peter?s sweet on you." "Really?" "He was awfully worried about your spending time with this Viera fellow. I think he?s jealous." Diane shook her head. Someday she?d be willing to entertain the possibility, but not now. "I?ve known Peter forever. I?d know if he had those kinds of feelings for me." "Would you?" Diane?s head ached from thinking too hard. She acknowledged that ever since Peter had returned to Riverbend, he?d seemed different to her, altered by his time in the big city. His eyes didn?t sparkle the way they used to; his laughter didn?t come so easily. When she asked him about New York, all he said was that he was happy to be home. But he didn?t seem happy.
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He wasn?t the person he used to be. How would she know if his feelings for her had changed, taking a romantic turn? "If he?s carrying a torch for me, he and I ought to talk about it," she said. Any other time, she might have found the idea interesting. But not today, not after she?d kissed Tony. "I should go find him." She pushed herself to her feet. "Wait! Aren?t you going to tell me more about Tony?" "There?s nothing to tell," Diane insisted, unable to keep her sorrow out of her voice. "He?s the sexiest man I?ve ever met. But he?s ? well, a New Yorker. He?d never even seen a grain elevator before today." "So that?s what you were doing with him? Showing him the grain elevator?" Nora chuckled. "I gave him an education," Diane said, thinking that with one kiss he?d given her an education, too. "I should let you get back to work." "I?m glad you stopped by." Nora pushed away from the desk and gave Diane another hug. "Please be careful. Cross at the corner." "I will." She left the courthouse, exiting through the side door near Nora?s office. Sunlight slanted against the shops lining the eastern edge of Courthouse Square. She headed toward the Sunnyside Café, thinking to find Peter there. Spotting him and Tony outside the café, she halted. Peter was frowning, shaking his head, backing a step away. He turned as if to run, and Tony grabbed his arm and pulled him toward his rental car. He nudged him down onto the passenger seat, slammed the door, got in behind the wheel and tore away, driving much faster than anyone ever drove around the square. Security consultant? Or something more sinister? Peter had been worried about her. Now she was worried about him. Tony could have taken Peter to the police station for questioning, but he decided not to. In a small town like Riverbend, where everyone knew everyone else, the cops might interfere with him, protecting their local boy. Sure, police officers were family; they watched each other?s backs. But something told him Riverbend was an even closer family, where loyalty to a hometown kid might be stronger than loyalty to a fellow officer ? especially one from New York. He headed for the grain elevator. It had been quiet there ? he supposed there wasn?t much action at the site until the farmers had grain to put into the place ? and remote enough that no one would see Peter talking to him. If he could make this whole thing easier on Peter, he would. Funny, back in New York, he?d never cared much about making things easier for the people he brought in for questioning. Here he did. Was it the calming influence of Riverbend? The peaceful atmosphere? The genuine decency that seemed to radiate from everyone he?d met? Or was it Diane? Peter was her friend. If Tony made life hard for the kid, Diane would be upset. He couldn?t imagine why that possibility gnawed at him. He was going to finish his business with Peter, one way or the other, and leave town. He?d never see Diane again.
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That understanding caused an ache in the pit of his stomach. He pulled into the parking area beside the towering storage elevator, yanked on the brake and turned off the engine. Silence wrapped around the car. Tony shifted in his seat, feeling his gun press against his hip where he?d tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He?d taken it from the glove compartment before going after Peter, just in case. Peter slouched beside him in the seat Diane had occupied not long ago. He tried hard to look indifferent, but Tony could tell he was scared. Scared people sometimes resorted to desperate acts. He was glad he had his gun handy. "I need to talk to you about a former associate of yours in New York City. Leo Crowley. Does the name ring a bell?" Peter scowled. "No." "Let?s not play games, Peter. Leo?s fingered you. You can help yourself by helping me." "Never heard of him." Peter eyed Tony out the corner of his eye. "What?s a big-city cop doing bugging people in Riverbend, anyway? You don?t belong here any more than I belonged in New York." "Maybe you didn?t belong in New York. But while you were there you crossed a few lines. Let?s work it out, okay? I know Leo was the brains behind this racket. He told me you put him in touch with suppliers you knew about through you father. That makes you a part of Leo?s operation." "I?m not saying another word," Peter snapped. "I know my rights. I want a lawyer." "You haven?t been charged with anything," Tony pointed out, keeping his tone low and level, as unthreatening as he could. "What do you need a lawyer for?" Peter eyed him suspiciously. "What did Diane tell you?" Tony held onto an impassive expression. "What do you think she told me?" he asked. "You were out with her half the day. Were you pumping her for information about me?" Again, Tony gave nothing away. "What do you think?" "She doesn?t know anything about my time in New York. She?s just ? you know, she?s my friend. If you dragged her into anything ?" "What might I have dragged her into? Tell me, Peter." Peter seemed to struggle. He raked a hand through his wheat-colored hair and glanced away. In the distance, Tony heard the faint rumble of an approaching car. Damn. Peter seemed on the verge of cracking open ? but someone was coming. Some Riverbend farmer who wanted to check on the grain elevator? One of Frank Garvey?s men who wanted to complain about Tony?s unorthodox way of conducting an interview? He glanced in his rearview mirror. As the car drew nearer, its driver grew more visible. Diane had found them...
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"What are you doing?" Diane yelled, bursting from her car and storming over Tony. Her bandage flashed white as she waved her hand at him. "Tony, why did you drag Peter off like ? like you were kidnapping him?" Tony sighed. He should have kept his window shut, but he?d been afraid the car would get too stuffy, and besides, he sort of liked that dirt fragrance. And anyway, even if his window were closed, he wouldn?t have been able to ignore Diane. How could anyone ignore a woman with so much spirit burning in her eyes, so much passion fueling her? He shouldn?t have kissed her ? because kissing her only reminded him of how deep her passion ran. "Go away, Diane," Peter muttered, gazing straight ahead. "I want to know what?s going on." She planted her hands on her hips and glowered at Tony. He twisted in his seat so he wouldn?t get a stiff neck trying to look at her. "Really, Diane, it would be better if you ?" She gasped and her cheeks paled. "You have a gun," she whispered. When he?d shifted in his seat, his jacket had pulled open and she could see the butt of his service revolver curving over the edge of his jeans. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I have a gun." She swallowed and inched back a step. "Did ? did you have that all day, when you were ? when we ?" "I didn?t have it on me then, no," he assured her, wishing he didn?t feel waves of fear and hatred emanating from her. "What ?" she swallowed again " ? what are you planning to do with it?" "Nothing." "Diane, please." At last Peter glanced at her. His eyes looked hollow to Tony, his mouth set in a scowl of resignation. "Go away. He?s right ? it would be better if you just left us alone." "He?s from New York City. Did you know each other there?" Diane?s eyes flickered between the two of them. "Did you do something there, Peter? Are you in some kind of trouble with Tony?" "Not the way you think," Tony said. "You don?t know what I think." Diane pressed her fingertips to her mouth, as if she was remembering their kiss and regretting it, regretting it for reasons quite different from Tony?s. "He?s a police detective," Peter snapped, obviously impatient with the long silence between them. "He?s come here to arrest me. Okay?" "Not necessarily," Tony muttered, but his words didn?t register on Diane. "Arrest you? Why?" Peter snorted. "Why do you think? I screwed up in New York. Now I?m in big trouble. And you?re only making it worse." Once again her eyes flickered between the two men. She fell back another step, and another, her hand once again pressed to her mouth. "How could you?" she breathed.
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She might have been addressing Peter. But as Tony watched her spin away and run back to her car, climb in, U-turn and tear down the road, back to town, he felt her words resonating inside him, cruel and angry. If Peter had betrayed her trust, Tony had betrayed it worse ? even though he wasn?t sure how he had. All he knew was that she hated him. That realization hurt more than a bullet to the heart. By the time Diane reached town, she felt dampness on her cheeks. She hadn?t even realized she was crying. But the shock of seeing that gun tucked into Tony?s jeans... and hearing Peter all but confess that he?d broken the law in New York... and worst of all, understanding that she?d spent hours with Tony, sensing a true connection between them, kissing him and wishing they could do more than kiss... The whole time, he?d been scheming to arrest Peter. He?d told her he was a security consultant. What a lie! The only reason he?d taken any interest in her was to get to Peter. He?d probably been waiting to nab Peter outside the pharmacy when she?d collided with Mitch Sterling?s van. Maybe he?d suffered a twinge of genuine concern for her after the accident ? but once Dr. Bennett had taken care of her, he?d probably stayed with her only because she was Peter?s friend, a means to an end. Some of her tears came from the appalling knowledge that Peter might have been involved in something illegal in New York. He?d never broken any laws in Riverbend, other than the usual ? sneaking a beer at a high school party, driving too fast on the county roads. Nothing bad enough to cause a policeman with a gun to travel halfway across the country to find him. What could he have done in New York? Why? She pulled into a parking space near the pharmacy and dried her eyes. Should she tell Stan what was going on? It might kill him. On the other hand, he might be worried about where Peter was. True, Peter was less than reliable at the store. He clearly didn?t want to be working there, but was helping out only on a temporary basis. Diane wasn?t sure she had the nerve to tell Stan his son was right that minute in the custody of a New York City detective ? one who?d duped Diane into believing he cared about her. Sighing, she opened her door just as Charlie Callahan emerged from the real estate office next door to the pharmacy. He saw her and jogged over. "Hey, Diane! I heard about your accident!" One thing about living in a town like Riverbend: everyone knew everyone?s business. "I?m fine," she said for the zillionth time that day. "I heard about it over at the Sunnyside. Evie Mazerik was telling everybody." Diane managed a limp smile. "As you can see, I survived." "I think you should sue the pants off Mitch." Charlie grinned when he said that. He and Mitch were good friends. A few years older than Diane, they?d been buddies for as long as she and Peter had been buddies. "I?m not going to sue anyone," she insisted. "Are you buying a new house?"
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He glanced over his shoulder at the real estate office and shook his head. "They?ve got a listing for the Dixon place, up on Madison. It needs some fixing up, so I put in a bid." A carpenter, Charlie did a lot of renovation work. "I?ve got to run, but listen ? stay out of Mitch?s way, okay? You know he?s a maniac behind the wheel." One thing Mitch Sterling wasn?t was a maniac, which was why she laughed at Charlie?s warning and waved him off. Once he was gone, she lost her grin. She?d never sue Mitch for an accident that was completely her fault...but mentioning the suit made her think about lawyers. Peter was going to need one. He needed to fight Tony. Because she adored Peter ? and because Tony had deceived her ? Diane had little difficulty choosing sides in this war. Peter was scared. Not of Tony so much, but of Leo and his associates back in New York. It seemed pretty clear that Peter could let himself off the hook if he testified against Leo and those guys, but...hell. They were dangerous. "What we?ll do is set up a conference call with the assistant D.A. back in New York," Tony was saying as he drove back to town. "She?ll take your statement, and we?ll work out a deal." He made it sound so simple. But it wasn?t. When Peter had first heard about some university students looking to buy Ritalin, he?d thought it was a joke. Ritalin was for schoolchildren with attention deficit disorder. It was a prescription drug, but so common he couldn?t believe the students were actually willing to pay big bucks for it. When he?d gone home to Riverbend for Christmas one year, he?d picked up some forms and internet codes his father used to place orders with his suppliers and brought them back to New York with him. One of the students was Leo ? only it had turned out he wasn?t really a student. What Peter had intended only as a favor ? an extremely stupid one ? for a couple of college kids, had gotten him tangled up with some professionals. They?d paid him well, but they?d also frightened him. He hadn?t meant to get involved in criminal activity. He?d thought that by leaving the city he could escape the whole thing. He?d live in boring Riverbend and behave himself, and no one would ever have to know about the idiotic thing he?d done. He?d never expected a police detective to come after him. "What kind of deal?" he asked warily. "Probation, probably," Tony said. "You?re a small fish, Peter. It?s the big guys we want to put away." Peter wasn?t sure if he should take that as a compliment or an insult. "If I get probation, do I have to go back to New York?" "I doubt it. We can set you up with a probation officer here in Riverbend. Maybe Frank Garvey could monitor you. He doesn?t seem like such a bad guy." Peter snorted. Frank Garvey was the old guard, gruff and set in his ways. Still, it would be better to have Garvey breathing down his neck than to return to New York, where Leo had lots of friends. Tony parked outside the police station, and Peter stopped him before he could leave the car. "Can I ask you a question?" "Sure." "What?s going on with you and Diane?"
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Tony eyed him carefully. "What makes you think there?s something going on?" "I know Diane." He sighed. "Look, I may be a screw-up, but if you did anything to her ?" Tony waited, and when the threat hung unfinished, he said, "I didn?t do anything to her." "You were with her all day, and she sure looked upset when she found us by the grain elevator. If you did anything to her, I swear I?ll make you pay." The way Tony looked at him, his eyes hardening, his mouth clenching, Peter knew he?d hit a nerve. Something had happened between this New York cop and a woman who?d never done a bad thing in her life. Diane had a soft heart. She could survive getting hit by a car better than getting conned by a good-looking guy. If Tony had hurt her...yes, Peter would make him pay. Tony found Diane at the place by the river where he?d kissed her. He?d known she would be there, and he?d found his way to the spot as if radar had guided him. Riverbend was actually a pretty easy town to get around. The streets were laid out in a logical order, just like in Manhattan, but there were fewer cars, and the drivers didn?t seem quite so homicidal. People were friendly. If he hadn?t been able to find the place, he suspected he could have described it to someone ?"there are a few big trees, I don?t know what kind they are, and some wild grass with flowering weeds, all colorful, and some large rocks, and it?s maybe a mile from the grain elevator" ? and the person could have directed him to this exact spot. But he hadn?t needed directions. He?d known instinctively, as if he were a Riverbend native. Stupid thought. He?d never feel at home in such a peaceful place, where dirt smelled clean and the sunset painted the sky with streaks of pink and red and lavender. She was perched on one of the rocks by the water?s edge, staring at the river. If she heard his car she didn?t indicate it. He got out, tramped through the high grass and settled onto a larger rock beside hers. He tried not to remember how good it had felt to kiss her. He?d come to apologize, not to make things worse. "Peter?s going to be okay," he said. She didn?t look at him. "Peter needs a lawyer. I called Nick Harrison ? he?s an attorney here in town ? but I can?t afford him. Do you know what lawyers cost?" "Less here than in New York, I?ll bet." "It?s not fair. You took advantage of Peter. If he?d had a lawyer ?" "Peter made a big mistake. His punishment isn?t so bad, considering." He was surprised that Peter?s future was all Diane cared about. If Tony had hurt her feelings, it didn?t seem to matter to her. She was worried only about her friend. "Are you going to throw him in jail?" Tony allowed himself a wry laugh. "It?s not my job to throw people in jail. Only judges and juries can do that."
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"Thanks for the civics lesson." Her tone was bitter. "I?ll rephrase the question: is he going to jail?" "Not if I can help it. I think the assistant D.A. is with me on this." "Great. Am I supposed to thank you?" Her sarcasm implied that Tony had hurt her, and that it did matter. A heaviness settled in his chest, an ache the beautiful scenery couldn?t overcome. He listened to the chirping of crickets, the whisper of the river flowing slowly past them, the haunting sigh of a breeze through the grass. This place was so beautiful... And Diane was even more beautiful. The wind played through her hair, and he longed to weave his fingers through it, to ease the tangles, to tip her face to his and kiss her. "Diane, look, I ?" "You used me," she muttered. "No." "You knew I was close to Peter, so you befriended me." "I befriended you because..." "Why?" She turned to him, her eyes luminous in the fading light. "Because I couldn?t help myself," he said. "Because I can?t." Then he did what he longed to do, what he had to do. He slid his hands deep into her hair and kissed her... Diane didn't want Tony's kiss. She wanted it too much. She knew that the instant his lips covered hers she'd be lost. Despite his having tricked her, lied to her, used her-she couldn't resist him. She wished she could, but she wasn't that strong. As he dug his fingers into her hair, she reached up and cupped his cheek. His jaw was scratchy with a day's growth of beard, and his skin was warm. Her touch caused him to sigh, which caused her to sigh, and when she did he took her mouth with his tongue. She tried to cling to her memory of what he'd done to Peter, what Peter had done to himself. She tried to stay focused on all the bad things that had happened that day, from her accident through this moment, but her resolve melted as easily as butter on a hot stove. She tried to remember that Tony Viera wasn't from Riverbend, would never remain in Riverbend, didn't belong in Riverbend-but his kiss, his hand sliding down her shoulder to her back, pulling her from her rock into his lap, his breath merging with hers and his body growing hard beneath her made it impossible to think about anything but how much she desired him. He tore his mouth from hers and kissed the tip of her nose, each closed eye, her forehead. Tucking her head against his shoulder, he brushed his lips against the soft waves of hair at the crown of her head. "I want you," he whispered. "You're leaving town." "Not yet." His voice was a hoarse rasp of sound, edged with hunger and need. It turned her on as much his kiss, his touch, the solid wall of his chest against her, the sheer masculinity of him.
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"But you are leaving." She said it firmly, a stern reminder to herself that what he was asking for could only lead to sorrow. "I can't even think about leaving," he swore. "I didn't use you, Diane. I'd never use you. I protected your friend as best I could. And now?no. I could never use you. You're too sweet. Too good. Too decent." "If I'm so decent, why am I kissing you?" she asked with a wry laugh. "Because you know I'm a decent man," he answered. "I'm not sweet, and it's not up to me to say I'm good. But I'm decent. I don't use people." He cupped his hand under her chin, urging her to look at him. "I could have left this evening. My work is done here. But I can't leave, because I want to be with you." He brushed his lips lightly over hers. "I want to be with you, Diane. Let me." If she said yes, she would regret it tomorrow and the next day, and the rest of her life. Tony was going to leave. And she'd remain in Riverbend without him. But her heart overruled her mind. "Yes," she said. "Your house is like you," Tony said. He lay across her bed, long and lean and naked. He had made love to Diane slowly, tenderly, with such exquisite sensitivity that she couldn't bear to think of what her life was going to be like once he was gone. At least she had tonight. She would hold her memory of it forever. That would have to be enough. "How is my house like me?" she asked, cuddling against him, her head cushioned by his upper arm and her hand resting against his chest, tracing dark hair that grew there. He sighed and held her hand steady, as if her light caresses were too powerfully distracting. Through the diaphanous curtains, the sky had turned from dusk to dark. She ought to have been hungry ? and she was, but not for food. Only for Tony. "It's like you because it's...honest," he said after mulling over his thoughts. "I was going to say it's simple, but you're not simple. You're unpretentious and wholesome and honest. Like this house." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. "I feel peaceful here. I've never felt this peaceful before." She leaned back so she could see him. In the dim evening light, his face was a sculpture of hard lines and angles ? but his eyes were smiling. And his mouth. Even his body felt peaceful beneath hers, his heartbeat strong and steady. "Don't you feel peaceful in New York?" He let out a laugh. "New York is about adrenaline," he said. "It's not about being able to lie so still you lose all sense of yourself." He shifted her hand in his so he could kiss her fingertips. "All I feel is you, Diane. All I hear and see and know is you. It's as if nothing else exists." She could tell he was struggling to describe the sensation, but she understood what he meant. The world outside her tiny house was tranquil. Her bedroom was filled with solid, basic furniture, and a big bouquet of wildflowers sat in a vase on her dresser. Photos of her family were wedged into the mirror frame, and she had made the braided rugs herself. Her house was like her, filled with peace and love. He moved out from under her and shifted onto his side facing her, his eyes darker than the night sky beyond her window. "I know you're worried about Peter, but I did the best I could for him," he said. The sudden change of subject, and his solemn tone, took her aback. "I'm sure you did."
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"He could have gone to jail for what he did." Tony stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "Even if I hadn't met you, Diane, I would have done what I could to keep him out of jail. He made a mistake, but everyone deserves a second chance." "I agree," she said cautiously, not sure where he was going with this. "I don't want you to hate me for coming to Riverbend." "Hate you?" She might hate him after he left, but not now. "Because ? God, I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I like it here, Diane. I like the smell of the dirt." He sounded so earnest she had to laugh. "I like the calmness. I like the way the river looks so clean and fresh, and everyone seems to know each other." "That's Riverbend." "I want to stay." His words were so unexpected, she was sure she'd misheard him. "What?" "I want to stay in Riverbend." "Why?" "Not just because it smells good and the crickets sound pretty, and because everyone I meet treats me with respect." He leaned toward her and touched his lips to her forehead. "The police force is small, but maybe they could use another detective. I'm experienced, I'm skilled, and I'd accept a cut in pay." "You'd want to work here?" "I want to be here." He leaned forward and pressed her mouth with a kiss. "You're here." "It's not New York." He grinned. "Don't I know it." His smile faded as he studied her face. "Say something." It was her turn to lean toward him, to take his mouth with hers and kiss away all his doubts. "Stay," she said. His face broke into a smile. "You want to settle down and raise some kids in this quiet little town?" She caught his smile and returned it. "That was my general plan." "Do you think those kids would make fun of their old man if he had a New York accent?" "I think ?" her smile softened and her heart swelled " ? that if you were their old man, those kids would be the luckiest kids in the world." "In that case," he whispered, kissing her once more, kissing her deeply, wrapping his arms and legs around her and holding her tight, "I'll stay."
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The Greek Tycoon's Baby by Lynne Graham Leos wants Susie to become his mistress ? again! Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| DAY ONE: MONDAY When the stretch limo pulled up outside, the executives waiting in the foyer fell silent. The new owner of Devlin Systems, the Greek multimillionaire, Leos Kiriakos, had arrived. His ruthless reputation had preceded him and the tension was electric. Everyone was expecting a huge round of redundancies by the end of the month. Susie Marshall, the slender redhead on reception, was pale as death, her entire concentration centered on the entrance doors being swept open. In just seconds, she would see him for the first time in fourteen long, endless months... Her co-worker, Jayne, a chatty blonde, whispered, "Bet he?s not anything as attractive as his publicity photos!" Susie snatched in an unsteady breath and clenched her hands tightly together. From the instant Leos Kiriakos had added Devlin Systems to his global business empire, nobody had been interested in talking about anything else. Frantically trying to calculate how to avoid being seen by Leos when she had the misfortune to work on the front desk had run Susie?s nerves ragged. "In fact, it?s my bet that below chin level, our Leos will be short and round, and about as sexy as a sockswash!" Jayne said ruefully. In immediate contradiction of that forecast, a male who was an easy six foot four inches tall strode in. With his wide shoulders, lean hips and long powerful legs, he had the well-honed physique of a natural athlete. From the crown of his proud dark head to the soles of his hand-made shoes, he was, by any standard, spectacular. "I have just died and gone to heaven...." Jayne swore as the executives engulfed Leos Kiriakos, desperate to make a good first impression. "Drop dead gorgeous and loaded!" "Yes..." Susie mumbled shakily, unable to drag her eyes from those bold, bronzed features. She was dizzy with a longing that shamed her, for the bitter-sweet memory of the last night she had spent in Leos?s arms now felt like a guilty secret. While Leos appeared fully occupied, Susie left the desk and headed for the cloakroom, intending to stay there until the coast was clear. "Susie...?" In shock, she froze in her tracks, the startling intervention of that rich, dark voice on a clear and rising question so horrifically unexpected, she almost died right there and then. Slowly, she turned. The men surrounding Leos had parted like the Red Sea. Heart racing so fast she was afraid she would faint, Susie collided with glittering tawny-golden eyes set between black, spiky lashes. Having initially moved forward, Leos stilled and moved an authorative hand to indicate that she should come to him. His lean, strong face was as hard as granite. "You work here?" Leos enquired grimly.
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Painfully conscious that they were now the focus of astonished stares and surrounded by total silence, Susie nodded jerkily. "In what capacity?" His fabulous bone structure was taut, the long-lashed brilliance of his eyes raking over her like slashing shards of ice. "I?m on reception." Susie practically whispered. His aggressive jawline squared. With a bleak nod of dismissal, Leos swung away from her ? again. DAY TWO: TUESDAY Susie peered at her still-swollen eyes in the vanity mirror and suppressed a groan. She had not slept the night before. A plaintive cry sent her whirling round. Across the room, her baby son was clutching his crib bars in frustration. His toy keys had fallen to the carpet. As she restored the ring to his tiny grasping hand, she smiled as his cross little face cleared like magic. Ben was six months old. He had silky dark curls, huge melting brown eyes and dimples. His features were still rounded and indistinct but he already bore a marked resemblance to his father in hair, skin, and eye colour, Susie conceded wretchedly. And there was no denying that she was wretched. Only yesterday, Leos had looked at her with icy hostility. His attitude had really hurt. But then, she and Leos had not parted the best of friends and the pain of that cruel severance remained, biting deepest whenever she looked at the son she adored. Coping as a single parent had not been easy. Her brother David, who worked abroad, allowed her to live rent-free in his apartment. Without his generosity, she would have been forced to live on welfare. Having Ben cared for in the Devlin Systems day care swallowed half of her salary. What was left over would not stretch to paying a London rent and living expenses as well. On the bus to work, Susie thought back uneasily to Jayne?s reaction to what she had witnessed. "Well, you?ve certainly been a dark horse," Jayne had sniped. "Why didn?t you say that you actually knew Leos Kiriakos?" So Susie had told part of the truth but not the whole. Although she had a business degree, she?d been working as an office temp when she first met Leos Kiriakos. While he was over on London on business, flu had laid low two of his personal staff. Susie had arrived at his hotel suite, proud to have got the opportunity but secretly quaking in her shoes. She had fallen in love at first sight of his breathtaking smile. In a split second, he had gone from being the intimidating and powerful Greek tycoon, whom she wanted to impress with her efficiency, to being simply the man of her dreams. When Leos had asked her out to dinner, she had been overjoyed. Six weeks of ecstatic happiness followed before everything began to go wrong... Susie hurried into the Devlin Systems building and left Ben in the ground floor nursery. As always, leaving him was a wrench. And like every other employee using the excellent childcare facility, she was anxiously wondering whether Leos Kiriakos would keep such a staff luxury. When she arrived at reception, Jayne pushed a sheet of paper toward her. "Looks like you?re on the way up..." Susie frowned. "What?s this?"
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"Personnel sent it down. You have an interview with Leos Kiriakos tomorrow afternoon." Jayne?s envy was unconcealed. "You must have made quite an impression the last time you worked for him..." DAY THREE: WEDNESDAY At ten to three the next day, Susie presented herself on the top floor, dressed in a dark-green skirt suit, with a longer-length jacket, her streaky red-gold curls caught up in a clip, her emerald eyes were strained, the pallor marking her delicate features pronounced. Two sleepless nights in a row. She had lain awake fretting about whether or not Leos now knew that she had a child. Leos, who had once angrily given forth on the subject of a friend "trapped for the next 20 years by a pregnant woman on the make!" Had Leos looked at her personnel file? If he had, he would surely have found out that she had given birth to a premature baby, eight months after they broke up! She was sent straight down the corridor to the managing director?s office. Sick with nervous tension, she knocked on the door and entered. Leos was on the phone, his hard, chiseled profile intent. He indicated the chair set several feet from his desk and returned to his call. Susie sat down and tried to keep her hands steady. She tried crazily to recall what constituted defensive body language, for Leos was certain to know. As she watched him, an emotional pain that was almost physical held her taut. He had replaced her with another woman without telling her. But then there had been extenuating circumstances for his behavior. And the truth was, Susie had yet to get over her affair with Leos Kiriakos. "Sorry about that." Pushing aside the phone, Leos sprang upright, emanating the megawatt energy that was so much a part of him. "Stop looking at me like a scared little mouse, Susie. I didn?t bring you up here either to sack you or abuse you. Believe it or not, I can take having been dumped without behaving like Neanderthal man!" Was this the guy who had growled down the phone at her 14 months ago, "no woman dumps me!" Connecting with eyes of stunning tawny-gold clarity set below level ebony brows, Susie was mesmerized, her heart hammering, her bewildered mind blank. Fortunately Leos was still talking, his rich-accented drawl like evocative long-missed music on her ears. "I need a social secretary for the next month." Lithe as a jungle cat, Leos strolled over to the tinted windows. "You?re quick, you?re clever. You don?t irritate the hell out of me with stupid questions. When I move on from here, you?ll be an executive assistant on the management team." Disconcerted by his every word, Susie just sank deeper into shock. Clearly, she had been over-sensitive on the day of his arrival, mistaking his natural surprise at seeing her as hostility. "Social s-secretary?" Leos quoted a salary that made her head spin and then glanced at his gold watch with impatience. "If you want the position it?s yours and you start tomorrow. We?ll discuss your duties then. I?m rather pushed for time today." "I?ll take it..." she heard herself say, even though his quite shattering indifference to their former relationship pierced her like a knife.... DAY FOUR: THURSDAY MORNING Leos was chairing a board meeting when Susie arrived.
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Nervous as a cat on hot bricks, she organized the small office allotted to her. Finally, the phone rang and she was summoned into the boardroom. Leos immediately stood up, provoking a noisy thrusting back of seats as the all-male management team surged to emulate his good manners. "Not only has Miss Marshall a topflight marketing degree, but she is also fluent in French and Spanish," Leos said, disconcerting Susie a great deal with that introduction. "What was she doing down on reception?" Looking aghast, the personnel manager froze. "A business that fails to place promising staff in a key position is wasteful." Leos delivered. "I have also taken note of the fact that there are no female managers, an extraordinary achievement in a firm this size." On that thought for the day, Leos closed the meeting. Suddenly, Susie understood that there had been nothing personal about his decision to promote her. He had simply used her to highlight his lecture about equal opportunities! A confusing mixture of reluctant admiration, pain and resentment assailed her. A vision of masculine sophistication in a superb gray business suit, Leos showed Susie into his office. "Last month Devlin Systems settled two charges of sexual discrimination out of court. There will not be a third ?" "I thought you didn?t approve of working women ?" Leos raised a brow. "You were the first working woman I took to my bed and you were often unavailable when I wanted you. What I seek for my own satisfaction in my private life has no relation to my opinions as an employer." Hotly flushed in receipt of that blunt clarification, Susie tore her gaze from his and regretted her own overfamiliar comment. All those months ago, she had only actually worked for Leos for three days before their passionate affair began and she had moved on to another agency placement. "I have a long list of tasks for you," Leos continued without skipping a beat, the heavy silence not seeming to disturb him in the slightest. But then, she already knew that he did not have a sensitive bone in his body, didn?t she? Everything Leos did merely emphasized that she had never been more than a casual bed partner ? on his terms. Her throat convulsed with tears. He extended an audiotape to her. "It?s all on here. First, you send out the invitations to the dinner party. Then you can nip over to Bond Street and choose a bracelet for Brigitte. I?ll fill in the gift card." Powered by a near-agonizing sense of humiliation and pain, Susie lifted her head, green eyes alight with outrage. "You are asking me to choose jewelry for your current lover?? she exclaimed and flung the tape back at his feet. "You call that work? I call it victimization and revenge. Burn in hell, Leos!? Leos studied her with incredulous tawny eyes. "I hate you...I really hate you! You were the biggest mistake I ever made in my whole life!" And on that embittered declaration, Susie stalked out.... DAY FOUR: THURSDAY AFTERNOON An hour later, Susie?s tumultuous emotions calmed enough for her to slowly fill with horror at her own behavior.
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She had spent 10 minutes silently sobbing in the cloakroom, 20 minutes trying to pull herself back together and the subsequent 30 minutes hugging Ben in the day care. Ben, whose comfort and security were dependant on her success in the job market. Ben, whose mother had just lost her foolish head and screamed like a shrew at a monstrously insensitive male. Ben, whose mother now had to eat humble pie for his sake. Back on the top floor, Susie knocked on Leos?s office door with a hand she couldn?t keep steady. Infuriated with herself, she whirled back flat against the wall and breathed in deeply before going in. Lounging back in his desk chair, Leos surveyed her, his lean, powerful face unreadable. "I owe you an apology. I don?t know what came over me." Susie attempted to look through him rather than at him. "I have a very good idea what came over you," Leos drawled softly. "Naturally, I?m willing to carry out whatever duties the job entails," Susie stated hurriedly, to avoid him passing an opinion on what had provoked her. "Including shopping for the woman in my life?" Leos inquired even more silkily. Susie shivered and her hands knotted into fists. She didn?t argue but she couldn?t force out a word of agreement. "To think that while we were together I never once saw that temper." Narrowed tawny eyes were pinned to her with laser light intensity. "You were hysterical earlier." "And offensive. I?m sorry," she told him tightly. "It won?t happen again." "Brigitte is my brother?s wife. The dinner party is to celebrate her birthday...." Leos watched the tide of pink mortification sweep up over Susie?s complexion. But her relief was so intense at that news, it outweighed her embarrassment. Involuntarily, she met his eyes. His wide, passionate mouth curved into a slow, burning smile and her willpower went into free fall, allowing disturbingly intimate memories to surface: Leos kissing her with driving hunger, sending her out of control with excitement. Heat consumed her entire skin surface. She trembled, heartbeat speeding, pulses racing in concert, as she felt her treacherous body respond as it had always done to his potent sexuality. And then she recalled the angry, half-naked blonde she had found in his apartment 14 months back. It had been her own fault, rushing over there without an invitation, finally making use of the key he had given her ? wanting to surprise him ? mercifully failing to do so. Fortunately, Leos had already gone, but his blonde bombshell hadn?t got around to putting her clothes back on. That humiliating memory doused the wanton heat inside her as efficiently as a bucket of ice water. "Susie...?" Leos questioned almost roughly. Susie wrenched her shamed gaze from him. "Am I still working for you?" "The tape?s in your office, along with an address book. There?s a pile of correspondence to take care of as well. I?ll be out of the office until Monday..." DAY FIVE: FRIDAY
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Susie went to work, reminding herself that Leos would only be at Devlin Systems for a further three weeks. Almost a week had gone already and he still had no idea that she had a child. Why should he find out? Who, after all, would choose to comment on the fact? The day before, Susie had kept on endlessly replaying the latest audiotape just to listen to Leos?s dark, deep, accented drawl. She had learnt that he had recently bought a house in London and that she was to organize his dinner party. The caterers were already booked but Susie had to see them to organize the finer details. Ruefully wondering why Leos?s efficient Greek manservant, Stamatis, was not taking care of such domestic matters for him. Susie?s increasingly confused and pained thoughts inevitably took her back nearly 18 months. She had fallen for Leos Kiriakos like a ton of bricks and had counted no costs when he became her first lover. She had known that Leos had a fast reputation with women. Gorgeous, wealthy, dazzlingly successful and then only 29 years old, Leos had had the world at his feet. However, what hurt Susie most was acknowledging that she could not entirely blame Leos for getting tired of her.... A few weeks into their magical, romantic affair, her mother had died suddenly. In every way possible, Leos had been supportive. However, Susie had changed into a moody misery. What male wanted to deal with such problems after a mere few weeks? Naturally, Leos had got fed up, but her dependency on him had made it difficult for him to ditch her, so he had let their relationship drift, doubtless hoping that she would get the message on her own. Unfortunately, Susie recalled, drifting back to the present with her eyes swimming with tears as she fed Ben in the day care over her lunch hour, the first and only message she had received had been the half-naked blonde. Dumping Leos on the phone that same day had been a pitiful attempt to save face, for she hadn?t mentioned her humiliating encounter with her replacement. Late that afternoon an elegant, vivacious brunette strolled into Susie?s office. "I?m Alisha James. Get hold of Leos for me and inform him that I?m free this weekend after all." A sultry smile curved her ripe mouth. "Tell him I have the most divine ideas for his bedroom!" Susie reddened, striving to keep her friendly smile in place. "I?m afraid I only have access to a message service. I don?t know where Mr. Kiriakos is, but I?ll try to find out." Alisha laughed throatily. "No need. When Leos gets the message ? and don?t you dare change a word of it ? he?ll know where to find me waiting." As the brunette departed, Susie dialed Leos?s message service, loathing him and the position he had put her in with bitter, angry pain. She passed on Alisha?s provocative invitation, and then tormenting, humiliating jealousy flooded her and she said with artificial brightness to punish herself, "have a great weekend!" DAY EIGHT: MONDAY MORNING Susie had spent the weekend in torment at the idea of what Leos might be doing with Alisha James. Ashamed at the emotional turmoil that had destroyed her ability to sleep a single night through and utterly exhausted, Susie arrived at work. She was so angry with herself. Plenty of women had their hearts broken and got on with their lives. Leos was giving her a terrific career opportunity. That was all she should be concentrating on. Entering her office, she was dismayed to find Leos waiting for her. Sheathed in a superb charcoal grey suit, lean strong face firm, he settled his dark eyes on her. She stilled. "Is there something wrong?"
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"Thee mou...it is well for you that I have had two days to cool down." Hard mouth compressed, jawline squared, Leos surveyed her in angry challenge. "How dare you leave such a message for me? That nonsense from Alisha crowned by your snide comment!" While now appreciating that Leos did not like provocative messages made through third parties, Susie could not comprehend how wishing him a great weekend could have acquired the label of "snide." "I don?t understand." "No...?" Derision glittered in his level gaze. "Do you honestly believe that I can?t recognise jealousy when I see and hear it?" Susie reddened fiercely. She was too honest to lie and too mortified to continue meeting his scrutiny. He had to think that either she was neurotically possessive or still madly keen on him. Perhaps, had he not hurt her so badly, or had she not given birth to his baby, she would have managed to wholly detach herself from their shared past. However, with Ben around, their affair was still very much a major event in her memory, even it is wasn?t in his. Without warning, Leos abandoned his confrontational stance. He reached down for her hand, thoroughly disconcerting her with that sudden switch in mood. "Susie...I didn?t intend to say that. I?m sorry." Susie stared down at the strong brown hand cradling hers, drawn by the warmth and solidarity of him but sent reeling by memories that tormented her. "That?s okay." "Let?s have lunch together and clear the air," he suggested. Lunch? Wildly conscious of the proximity of his lean, powerful physique, Susie trembled, torn by resentment and longing. If only it were that simple, she thought painfully. If only they could act like sane, civilized people. Evidently he was capable of that feat but, sadly, she was not. "There is no reason for us to be enemies," Leos continued. Really? For an insane instant, she wanted to scream back at him in denial. He had gone to bed with another woman while she still believed he was hers. She might have understood but she had not forgiven. "I?m sorry..." Susie eased free and backed away, exhaustion weighing her down. "I?ll be more comfortable if we stick to a working relationship." Shimmering, dark eyes held hers. The silence seethed. Leos inclined his dark head and strode out of her office.... DAY EIGHT: MONDAY AFTERNOON Susie stretched out a sleepy hand and felt something furry and unfamiliar. Extending her fingers she touched cool...leather? Her eyes opened on a startling view of Leos?s office. Leos strolled into the picture, all fluid grace and cool. Susie sat up on the leather sofa, hampered by the fake fur rug still wrapped round her. "What on earth ? ?" Leos shrugged "I found you asleep at your desk before lunch. I tried to wake you but you were well away ?" "You should have shaken me awake!" Bright hair tumbling loose round her shoulders, Susie fought free of the rug and stood up to look for her shoes. "For goodness sake, why did you bring me in here?"
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Leos frowned, "Where else could you sleep in comfort?" "But you must?ve carried me in..." Susie protested. "Who knows about this?" "Nobody. I sneaked you in." His charismatic smile tilted her heart on its axis and left her breathless. "Susie...you looked worn out this morning." "Nevertheless..." Attempting to disconnect from the magnetic charge of his tawny gaze, Susie combed her hair awkwardly with her fingers. "I feel such a mess ?" "I like your hair down...as you used to wear it." Leos moved closer. "It?s pretty, natural. I can see all the colors." Susie could feel his approach pulse through her every skin-cell. Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping. The atmosphere sizzled with sexual awareness. She quivered but her feet stayed put. Caught unprepared, brain still foggy with sleep, her barriers were down and she could not resist the dark force of his attraction, or her own craving for physical contact. Leos settled his hands on her taut shoulders. "I?m not into sexually harassing employees. So you choose whether or not to walk away ?" Susie gulped. "I ?" "But if you don?t walk away now, there?s no going back," Leos warned huskily. Meeting those brilliant eyes, she told herself it was a dream ? a dream from which she did not intend to awaken. He moved one hand to her spine and eased her closer. You?re not dreaming, you?re wide awake, Susie, her conscience shrieked against her will. But she heard herself mumble, "Just one kiss..." Leos folded her into his arms and knotted his fingers into her bright hair, satisfaction blazing in his smouldering gaze as he scanned her face. "You are bargaining with me...or yourself?" He didn?t wait for her reply and while she was still trying to fight herself, he brought his expert mouth down on hers. By that stage, weak with anticipation, she felt like a powder keg craving a flame. And whoosh...Leos did not disappoint. She burned with excitement and joy, wanting, needing to touch him, close her straining fingers into the thick silk of his hair, shape his arrogant dark head, settle her palms to his proud cheekbones, hold him tight. Hold him fast, never, ever let him go again... Leos lifted his head. "It?s almost six. We?ll have dinner...talk ?" "Almost six?" Susie exclaimed, tearing herself free and racing for the door. The day care shut at half-past five and she was late picking up Ben! DAY EIGHT: MONDAY EVENING Safely home again, Susie had just settled Ben for the night when the apartment doorbell sounded. Peering through the peephole, she saw Leos and panic gripped her. Too late she appreciated that running out on Leos without explanation had been even more stupid than kissing him again. Reminding herself that Ben rarely stirred after he went to sleep, she opened the door. "Why did you rush off like that?" Leos demanded, strong, dark features taut.
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Face burning, conflicting emotions tearing at her, Susie went into the sitting room ahead of him. "Regret... embarrassment ?" "No need for either... " A lean hand closed to her shoulder and turned her back to face him. His eyes sought hers. "I want you back, Susie." Shock held her still. With a slumberous sigh, Leos lifted a hand and gently ran a forefinger along the line of her full lower lip. "Why so surprised? You should know I don?t play games. What you see is what you get ?" "Is it really?" The question erupted from Susie and she whirled away from him, physical senses singing from his touch but her mind a stormy sea of bewilderment. "Does Alisha James know you?re here?" Leos released a rueful groan. "Where I go or what I do has nothing to do with my decorator ?" "Your... what?" "Alisha?s firm is decorating my house." Though the brunette evidently aspired to a more intimate connection with Leos then she had yet achieved, Susie was embarrassed at having made yet another false assumption. "Wrong... again." His lustrous eyes now bright with amusement, Leos studied Susie?s expression. "But who cares? I don?t. Right now, the only woman I want in my life is you ?" A jarring laugh escaped Susie. "You told me that once before ?" "I don?t understand your bitterness. You ditched me." Humor set aside, lean powerful face intent, Leos frowned. "Were you crying wolf when you did that? Was I supposed to run after you and try to change your mind?" "No ?" "It was a bad time for you because you?d lost your mother. But you slammed the door on what we had as if it meant nothing to you. I need you to explain why you did that." Susie?s eyes widened at his demand. Leos sounded so sincere. Possibly he was not aware that she had found that blonde in his apartment. But he was a clever guy; he had to have suspected that she had discovered his infidelity. "Why are you doing this to me?" Susie lifted up her chin. "Why are you acting innocent? Did you think I wouldn?t find out?" "Find... out... what?" Leos trailed out with exaggerated frustration. "You were two-timing me... and you know you were!" His fabulous bone structure clenched hard. "That?s a downright lie ?" "Oh, come on... I used that key you gave me for your apartment. A six-foot-tall blonde dressed in only her underwear walked out of your bedroom!"
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Susie recognized the exact moment Leos made the connection. He paled with anger beneath his bronzed skin. He breathed something raw in Greek and swinging on his heel, he strode back out of the hall. "If I stay here I?ll say much that I will live to regret!" DAY NINE: TUESDAY MORNING Leos phoned Susie at nine-thirty the next morning. "I won?t be in until later. But I?ve just remembered that I didn?t ask you to keep Wednesday evening free ?" "Why?" "The dinner party. You?ll be acting as my hostess," Leos informed her dryly. "Choice doesn?t come into it either, Susie. I want you there." "But I would prefer ?" "In your current capacity, it?s a reasonable request. If you want a working relationship, start treating me like your employer." At that pointed reminder, Susie?s cheeks flamed. She was seriously tempted to put her head down and cry. Last night, she had finally faced up to her emotional turmoil. Being around Leos was tearing her apart because she was still in love with him. Learning that Leos wanted her back was almost more than she could handle. A second chance, an insane little voice had whispered in the back of her mind, shaming and infuriating her ? for what could be more impossible in the current circumstances? Leos Kiriakos had not the faintest idea that she had given birth to his child! They had parted before she realized that she was pregnant. Even worse, that development could be laid almost exclusively at her own door. She had been grieving for her mother and had twice forgotten to take her contraceptive pills. Leos had then swept her off to Paris in the rather touching last-chance belief that a romantic weekend might magically dry her tears and cheer her up. Well, she hadn?t cheered up but she had spent the night in his arms. Ben had been conceived in Paris. Over her lunch hour, she and Ben made a mad dash out to the shops. As always, it was a struggle to steer the buggy through the crowds but Ben adored getting out and about. Back in the Devlin Systems building, Susie headed for the daycare. By the time she saw Leos standing by the elevators, it was too late to do anything but just attempt to walk on by with a jerky nod of acknowledgement. Ebony brows pleating at the sight of her pushing a buggy, Leos froze in surprise. Every scrap of color drained from Susie?s complexion. Time was moving in slow motion for her. An elevator arrived with a loud pinging noise. Leos was still staring. She saw his hesitation and then he forced her to a standstill by moving forward. "Where did you steal the baby from?" Her heart felt like it was hammering inside her throat, making it impossible for her to breathe. "The daycare... " "What daycare?" "Devlin Systems has a daycare... " "Has it really?" Leos frowned. "I wonder why I wasn?t shown it when I was getting the official tour."
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"It?s beside the cafeteria. I imagine people thought you might not be interested," Susie whispered shakily. "So who does the baby belong to?" Her own lifetime seemed to stretch in the silence which followed. Susie parted dry lips. "He?s... he?s mine." Leos studied her in stunned silence. Then his tawny eyes darkened with incredulous fury. "Thanks for telling me!" Without another word, he strode into the elevator... DAY NINE: TUESDAY AFTERNOON By the time Susie got back up to her office, the phone was ringing. It was Leos. "I want to see you in my office." Stiff with strain, Susie breathed in deep. Showdown-time had arrived, she conceded heavily. And if Leos?s instantaneous rage on the ground floor was anything to go by, she could only dread what was coming next. Could there have been a worse way for Leos discover that he was a father? Leos was by the window with a glass in his hand. He swung round, bold, bronzed features grim. "Why didn?t you just tell me you had a baby?" "Leos ?" "Don?t you think I had the right to know?" "Well, it was more a matter ?" "You let me kiss you... you let me think... " Leos compressed his lips, lines of strain girding his hard mouth, and then he tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass. "All right, so you?re shocked ?" "What did you expect? I?ve been chasing you like some stupid kid and you sat back and you let me, knowing I didn?t have a clue what you were keeping from me!" Outraged eyes challenged her. "How could I have worked out that you?d had a child since I last saw you? It?s little more than a year since we were together ?" Susie was rigid, but her legs were starting to tremble. "I never thought of telling you... it was stupid, I believed I could keep Ben a secret ?" Leos released his breath with a stark hiss. "You had the gall to accuse me of infidelity? And all this time, do you know what I believed? I thought you dumped me because you couldn?t allow yourself to be happy even with me while you were grieving ?" "What are you getting at?" Leos seemed to be circling round, rather than centering on, the main issue, which was surely Ben. " ? and all along it was because you?d met someone else! The oldest story in the book, only I refused to see it," Leos ground out.
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"I?d met... someone else?" Susie stressed in bewilderment. "The father of your baby. Where is he? Since you?re living in your brother?s apartment, I assume the father is long gone!" As Susie finally understood that Leos believed that she had conceived Ben with some other man, dismay and anger filled her. "You assume ?" "Forget it... I don?t want to know the sordid details!" Leos proceeded to pour himself another shot of alcohol. "In fact, I don?t even know why I said I wanted to talk to you, because really, what is there left to say?" "You?ve already said more than enough!" Susie shot back at him in furious pain. Leos shot her a sardonic appraisal. "You were too scared to tell me you had had a baby. Admit it ?" "I refuse to continue this conversation!" "You have my permission to leave." Susie reached the door. She was shaking like a leaf. "Thee mou... now you?re trying to make me feel guilty. But your silence was inexcusable. You deceived me!" "Just like you once deceived me! Why should I care about how you feel now?" Susie slammed out. DAY TEN: WEDNESDAY At nine the following morning, Susie looked up from her computer monitor, just as Leos came in. In a fluid movement he leaned back against the door to close it. She had spent the previous evening telling herself that she truly loathed Leos Kiriakos. How could he simply assume that her baby was some other man?s? That was the one possibility she had not foreseen. And wasn?t it peculiar that Leos had shrugged off being confronted about that blonde? Was that his idea of smart footwork? Just act like the blonde had never happened? Well, her memory was sharp as nails. So it was unfortunate that no matter how mad and bitter Leos made her, he still took her breath away every time she saw him. Standing there, ruggedly masculine even in a formal business suit, aggressive jawline clenched, stunning eyes screened, Leos exuded a slight but perceptible discomfiture that unexpectedly tugged at her heartstrings. "If you?ve got something to say, say it," Susie sighed. "I suppose a sensitive but self-serving, dishonest guy would have leapt straight on the child and said ?Wow, this is just the cutest baby I ever saw!?" "Did you even look at Ben?" "I didn?t want to look at him... " A split second after admitting that, Leos gritted even white teeth and spread lean brown hands in frustration. "Scratch that comment ?" "Just sensitively slipped out, did it?" Susie turned back to the computer. "Not into babies, are you?" "No comment. I?m only here to tell you to go out this morning and buy yourself an evening gown for the dinner party." As she sat there stunned by the concept of Leos paying for anything she wore, he settled a
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gold credit card down on her dark desk and mentioned the name of an exclusive designer outlet. "It?s a legitimate business expense ?" "Is this an order?" "Yes," Leos confirmed without hesitation. "Appearances are everything in my world. I don?t want anybody talking down to you ?" "I am only the hired help, Leos ?" "For how much longer?" Susie raised shaken eyes to his. "Is that a threat?" "You should know me better than that." Brilliant tawny-golden eyes flared with exasperation. "Call it like it is, Susie. When I look at you, I ache and you feel the same way ?" Susie quivered with an angry response, but she didn?t know whom she was most furious with: herself for her quickened breathing and shameless shivery weakness, or him for making that arrogant claim with such cool. "Did the blonde make you feel like that?" "Never... " "Tough... " In the charged silence, Susie tore her anguished gaze from his, shattered by that single word with which he appeared to finally admit his cruel betrayal. "You can?t turn the clock back. I could never trust you." "How good at groveling, are you?" Leos murmured silkily on his way out. Groveling? Not for all the tea in China, not even for a fresh start with the man she still loved. But it was time she told him the truth about Ben, Susie conceded with bitter reluctance. Eventually, Ben would ask who his father was and expect answers. How could she allow Leos to continue believing that Ben was another man?s son? How had she ever imagined that she could keep quiet forever when it was not just her secret to keep... ? DAY TEN: WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON "The wildest rumors are flying around about you and the boss!" Jayne?s gaze rested on Susie with speculative heat and then dropped to the exclusive designer dress box parked beside the desk. "Watch your back, because the grapevine is exploding around this building!" "Really?" Susie was appalled to recognize yet another dimension to her problems, one she couldn?t believe it had taken someone else to point out. She also wished she?d had the wit to hide the dress box. "Leos Kiriakos will be moving on, but you have to work here ?" "What kind of wild rumors?" Jayne winced. "Well, they range from the two of you supposedly spending almost the whole of Monday afternoon in his office without coming out once... to the outer reaches of credibility ?" "And the outer reaches are?" Susie mumbled. "Nasty... that your Ben... well, you know he?s got that lovely dark coloring ?"
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"Say no more... " Susie dropped her head to hide her horror at the devastating accuracy of the grapevine. "The management team thinks you?re planning to spy on their every move and report back to the boss. The word is that when you?re with Leos Kiriakos, the door is always closed." It was perfectly true, and not all the norm in meetings between a junior employee and a powerful business tycoon. Suffering agonies of self-blame and already pitched to the emotional heights on the knowledge that she had to tell Leos that Ben was his son, Susie swept up the phone and hit Leos?s extension number, as soon as Jayne had departed. "Leos... I need to talk to you but I don?t want to come around to your office ?" "Why?" "I believe our behavior has caused a lot of gossip ?" "I don?t take account of that sort of nonsense." Leos sounded very male and very superior. "Neither should you ?" "Look, we need to talk about Ben ?" "No... I?m not ready for that... I may never be ready for that," Leos spelled out with blunt emphasis. "You don?t understand ?" "I understand perfectly. You and your child are a package deal. I may be insensitive but I?m not stupid." Leos drawled with cutting clarity. "I?ll send a car over to pick you up this evening at seven." Click! He?d ended the conversation. Susie groaned in disbelief. Why was Leos so certain that he could get her back? Was it so obvious to him that she still cared? How dare he tell her that he was still working out whether or not he could face taking her back, now that she had a child? Fifteen minutes later, during her lunch break, it was a shock for Susie to glance out of the daycare?s kitchen from where she was collecting Ben?s food, and see Leos in conversation with the daycare supervisor. A fixed smile on his lean strong face, he was scanning the busy room, his attention lingering on every baby within view. Finally he asked a question to his companion. Susie watched the discomfited supervisor indicate Ben. Leos zeroed in on Ben and just paled, his fabulous bone structure rigid. One minute later, he strode back out again. DAY TEN: WEDNESDAY EVENING Had Leos worked out that Ben was his son? That was all that Susie had thought about since lunchtime. Leos had not only left the daycare, he had left the building, and he had not returned. At seven, Susie was collected from her apartment by a limo. In the sleek midnight-blue evening gown she had selected earlier that day, she would have felt like a million dollars had her nerves not be strung as tight as piano-wires. Leos greeted Susie in the magnificent hall of his town house. Spectacular in a well-cut dinner jacket, Leos ran appreciatively dark eyes over her and a brilliant smile slashed his wide, sensual mouth. "I want you to meet my brother and his wife before the other guests arrive." Susie remembered once seeing a photo of his younger brother, Petros, but right at that moment, Susie would have preferred to speak to Leos alone. But, obviously, it was neither the time nor the place to make a
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big confession about Ben. She had been foolish to think that Leos might have guessed the truth just by looking at Ben. But she honestly didn?t know how she was going to tell Leos she had had his baby. Leos rested a hand to her taut spine. "You remember that blonde who walked out of my bedroom and shocked you last year?" Susie froze. "Yes... but what on earth ? ?" "Brigitte had just come out of a clinic here in London after a miscarriage. I moved into a hotel to give Petros and Brigitte the privacy of my apartment until they flew back to Greece." Leos explained. "I believe Petros was in the shower when you arrived ?" "Are you trying to convince me that ? ?" But Susie got no further for they had reached the drawing room, where a very tall blonde was standing beside Petros Kiriakos. Leos was attempting to convince her that the half-naked angry blonde had been Brigitte, his sister-in-law. She refused to believe it... but right there in front of her was the evidence. Brigitte was the woman whom Susie had found in Leos?s apartment and she looked rather embarrassed. "This is a case of my sins coming back to haunt me, Susie." Brigitte gave her a rueful smile of apology. "I was so rude to you that day that I didn?t even mention our meeting to Petros, never mind anybody else! It?s no excuse, but I was very emotional at the time and you just walking in; well, I lost my temper... totally forgot that it wasn?t our apartment ?" "That?s fine... I understand. Really, please don?t worry about it!" In severe shock at what Leos had confronted her with, Susie passed his sister-in-law a small gaily wrapped parcel with a reassuring smile. "Happy birthday, Brigitte." Her legs felt like cottonwool sticks. The crowd of chattering guests arriving provided a welcome distraction, but Susie could not have looked at Leos had her life depended on it. "How good at groveling, are you?" he had asked earlier. How did one grovel when the very ground had been torn from below one?s feet? Susie was reeling... DAY ELEVEN: THURSDAY MORNING It was just after midnight. Susie saw her babysitter out. Her eyes were burning in her head but the tears refused to come. When Leos?s guest had begun leaving, she had sneaked out and caught a cab home. "I?m very sorry that I misjudged you," she had said woodenly to Leos. "Is that it? Is that all you?ve got to say?" Leos had demanded. She had been far too upset to say the right things. Fourteen months ago, it had been so easy for her to believe he had betrayed her. She had just been waiting for it to happen. Being madly in love with a man who never mentioned love and never made a date more than two days ahead had just been too much for her to handle in the wake of losing her mother. That Leos should have preferred a beautiful blonde to her sad-and-sorry self had made perfect sense. She had believed Leos was a louse, a two-timing louse. Only he wasn?t. Now she was the one in the wrong, very much in the wrong. The doorbell buzzed. She knew it was Leos. That was when her eyes finally filled with scorching tears. She loved him so much. How had everything gone so wrong?
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White dress-shirt half unbuttoned to show a bronzed slice of muscular chest, his black hair ruffled and his hard jawline roughened by stubble, Leos looked like a very sexy pirate. Susie said, "I don?t know what to say to you ?" Leos dropped the package he was carrying and caught her into his arms, scanning her damp eyes with frowning censure. And then, without any warning at all, he was kissing her with explosive passion, crushing her soft mouth under his over and over again, until she was clinging to him in shivering excitement, senses singing, her heart racing, mind a total wasteland. Raising his proud dark head, Leos gave her a wolfish grin and lifted her. But he didn?t carry her in search of a bedroom. He settled her on the sofa, and reappeared with the package that he tossed on to her lap. "What... what?s this?" "It?s for Ben ?" "B-Ben?" "I saw him in the daycare yesterday." Dark blood scoring his fabulous cheekbones, Leos shrugged. "He gave me this big smile... he looked little and helpless... I?m not going to say he?s the cutest baby I ever saw. He?s probably the first baby I ever really looked at." Trembling, Susie tugged a blue velvet rabbit from the packaging and her throat convulsed once more with tears. "I had something similar as a baby... " Leos shared. Shame and guilt engulfed Susie, making her feel the lowest of the low. "Leos... Ben well, er...Ben is six months old." Leos continued to survey her steadily. "Ben is your son," Susie framed shakily. "There wasn?t any other man. I fell pregnant in Paris by you." Heart sinking, she watched comprehension grow in his eyes. Then disbelief, shock, and acceptance, followed by a look of searing condemnation. "What you have just told me," Leos breathed harshly, "is beyond all forgiveness." Agonized, Susie watched Leos walk out on her and listened to the slam of her front door. DAY ELEVEN: THURSDAY AFTERNOON Within minutes of Leos?s arrival that afternoon at Devlin Systems, Susie was called to his office. Leos raked chilling dark eyes over her. "Why did you come in today? Are you insane?" Insane? In the automatic way that most people clung to routine in times of crisis, it had not occurred to Susie to stay home. "I ? I ?" "Did you think I would want to meet my son for the first time in the workplace nursery?" His darkly handsome features were lit by the hostility of his gaze. "You go downstairs and you take my son out of there. Then you climb into the car waiting and you take Ben to my home."
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Distressed by his bitter antagonism, Susie nodded. It should have dawned on her that Leos would wish to meet Ben. But only when Leos had presented her with the velvet rabbit, signifying his willingness to accept a child he had believed to have been another man?s, had Susie appreciated how strongly Leos might feel about his own child. "You decided I had slept with another woman and you took your revenge by denying me the right to know my son," Leos condemned. "We broke up long before I knew I was pregnant, " Susie protested. "Do you remember talking about that friend of yours who you said was ?trapped? by a pregnant woman on the make?" "Don?t try to justify yourself on that basis. That woman?s child might have been fathered by any one of a half-dozen men! We had something very different... or at least, I thought we did ?" Susie flushed with discomfiture. "But I believed you might accuse me of being on the make because you were rich... I didn?t want the same label!" "You will tender your resignation, " Leos continued as if she hadn?t spoken, determined, it seemed, to allow her no defense. "Sacking me, too?" "Protecting my son?s foolish mother from further damaging her reputation and mine ?" "Only yesterday, you told me you took no heed of such nonsense ?" "You should have told me the minute I entered this building that you had a baby, and that the baby was mine! Then... " Leos vented a humorless laugh, "you should have told me the day you realized you had conceived. I wouldn?t leave any woman struggling to raise my child alone ?" "Even if it was my fault it happened in the first place?" "Surely I?m mature enough to accept that making love can make a baby? And that sometimes that particular creative event is out of our control?" So she was pond slime. Tried and found guilty. From every angle he made that clear. She had misjudged him, made wrong decisions, assumed the worst, surrendered to her own pessimistic expectations. Having been assailed by tears since the early hours, Susie?s throat ached, but she still had to ask him one question. "So... if I?d come to you a year ago and admitted I was pregnant, what would you have said?" His stunning eyes cut like golden knives into her. "I would have said it was fate... and I would have married you." "It?s easy to be perfect and self-righteous... after the event. " Susie left, feeling that he had ripped her heart out... . DAY ELEVEN: THURSDAY EVENING Leos would have married her. No mention of love though. No doubt he would have made her feel dreadful if he had married her, Susie told herself, no doubt they would both have been miserable. He had not loved her then and now even his respect for her was gone.
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"He?s really bright... ." Leos was watching their six-month-old son chortle and dig under the cushion to find the velvet rabbit his father had tried to conceal from him. "Hmm... " Seated bolt upright in the drawing room of the town house, Susie studied man and baby, the black hair, golden skin, dark eyes that made them a matching duo. Ben sat down on the rug. He?d had a nap earlier and Leos had gotten through that hour by asking constant questions about his son. What he liked, what he ate, how he slept, how big he was in comparison with other babies of his age, how clever he was in comparison with other babies of his age, how advanced in comparison with other babies of his age. For a male, who knew nothing about babies, Leos knew it all, including the fact that Ben had been born prematurely. Why had she had never realized that Leos might be the sort of guy willing to crawl about the floor in a suit that had cost thousands of pounds and happily pretend to be a airplane, or a horse, or a car? Leos was still surveying Ben with a shell-shocked look of pride and pleasure lightening his lean, strong face. From what she could see, discovering he was a father appeared to be a positive source of joy to Leos Kiriakos. "He?s dropping off again," Leos groaned in disappointment, as Ben?s lashes drooped and an enormous yawn showed off his baby teeth. "This is his bedtime." "Why didn?t you say?" Leos reproved. "One late night won?t harm him ?" "But we should stick to his routine, now that he?s out of that daycare and he has your full attention ?" "Yes, I?m sorry I worked and neglected him by doing what thousands of other women do to make a living ?" "Don?t be facetious. I wasn?t blaming you. I was merely pointing out that Ben will much appreciate having you all day ?" "You?re planning to keep us, are you?" Susie viewed him with bleak eyes, willing the storm of angry, wounded conflict inside her to stay down, out of sight. Leos lifted Ben from the rug with excruciatingly gentle hands and laid him down on a sofa, boxing in his sleeping son with a line of cushions. Then he hovered just in case Ben made a sudden attempt to climb over the safety-barrier and fall. "Obviously, we?re getting married. I?ve already been making enquiries about a special license. We?ll have the wedding as soon as possible." In one sense Leos was offering Susie all her past and present secret dreams but at that moment, all that powered her was the terrible hurt he had caused. "I wouldn?t marry you if you were the last man alive on earth!" DAY TWELVE: FRIDAY MORNING "I don?t want you doing the decent thing and marrying me... okay?" As Susie talked to Leos on the phone at nine the following morning, she was biting back sobs. "And at this hour of the day I do not want to talk about the stigma I am casting on your son by being an unmarried mother!" "Why are you acting this way?" Leos demanded, being totally unreasonable. Susie hung up the phone.
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Leaving Ben with the neighbor, who babysat for her on the rare occasions that she went anywhere without him, Susie headed for Devlin Systems. She had to clear her desk. Hopefully, slipping in near lunchtime would attract the least attention. Leos had been incredulous when she?d refused to marry him. Ben?s needs featured in his every argument. Sadly, Susie had not heard one word that she wanted to hear. His angry inability to forgive her for the past and his refusal to see both sides of the situation would inevitably wreck any marriage. It wasn?t enough for her to love him. Susie had just finished clearing her desk when Leos appeared in the doorway. Unusually, he hovered. Nervous tension soaring, her heart skipped a beat. Tall, dark, devastatingly sexy, and stubborn as solid steel. "You?ve never listened to my side of the story," Susie said. "Meaning?" "What it was like having my one and only affair with someone like you." Susie?s gaze clashed with his intense dark golden eyes. "You were romantic and caring but you never let me feel secure with you... you were too cool for that, too clever, even too fair to hint at a commitment you weren?t planning to make ?" Lean, powerful face taut, Leos frowned. "Susie ?" "By the time I met Brigitte in your apartment, I was already convinced you were getting bored with me. You gave me no reason to believe that we had a future beyond your next phone call," Susie asserted shakily. "Yet, you still believe I should have come running back with my big announcement that I was pregnant ?" "Don?t you think there might have been a gulf then between what I was feeling and what I was showing you I felt?" His lean hands clenched his sides. "No. Even my Valentine card didn?t have that four letter word, love, on it, Mr. Cool." Misery was rising like a tidal wave inside Susie. "I really do want to marry you ?" "You don?t have to marry me to see Ben." Emotion threatening to overwhelm her, Susie walked into the corridor. "Susie... " Leos breathed raggedly. Susie kept moving, eyes swimming with tears. "I love you... " Faltering, Susie blinked. "I?ve always loved you!" Leos proclaimed with roughened force. Fascinated faces appeared at doorways. Susie turned in a dizzy circle. Meeting the raw vulnerable intensity of his gaze, reading the strain in his bronzed features, she saw that he meant every word. A wild surge of happiness engulfed her. "I love you too ?"
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"This public enough for you?" A wolfish grin slanting his mouth at the muted burst of applause from an audience that was afraid to be too enthusiastic, Leos strode toward her and swept her into his arms. "Mr. Cool just took a hike... " DAY TWELVE: FRIDAY AFTERNOON In the limousine, on the way to pick up Ben, Leos banded both arms around Susie and kept her welded to every line of his hard muscular physique. Having kissed her breathless, he was now frowning with masculine bewilderment. "I assumed you knew how I felt ?" "How? By thought-transference?" "When we were together last year, I could have told you I loved you the first week but I decided it would be... well ? " "Cooler to keep it quiet?" "More sensible to go with the flow for a while." His dark tawny-golden eyes scanned her with tender appreciation. "Then you lost your mother and I felt like I lost you ?" "Did you?" That admission shook Susie. "You shut me out. I didn?t know whether to push or stand back... in the end I stood back which was the wrong thing to do ?" Susie groaned. "I though you were getting fed up with me ?" "I was devastated when you dumped me... there, I finally said it! " Leos breathed heavily. "Then I waited a couple of weeks and tried to contact you again but you?d moved ?" "Tell me, why did you just assume that Ben wasn?t yours?" "Ben seemed small to me at first. I thought he was a couple of months younger than he is. I went haywire for a couple of days, I was sick with jealousy," he admitted ruefully. Something that had been puzzling Susie since Wednesday evening prompted her to change the subject and say, "Stamatis answered the door to me the night of the dinner party. Why didn?t he just arrange everything for you?" At that reference to his manservant, Leos gave her a wicked grin. "Haven?t you worked that out yet, yinkeka mou? I had to dream up a job for you!" "Dream up?" "Not the promotion... the social secretary angle. If you?d gone straight on to the management team, I would never have had a chance to see you alone. The minute I recovered from the shock of finding you at Devlin Systems, I decided to try and get you back ?" Susie was transfixed by what he was telling her. "But that interview you gave me... you were so impersonal ?" "If I had gotten up close and personal as I am doing now... you?d have taken fright and run!" A teasing light in his lustrous dark eyes, Leos claimed another tender kiss. "I had to convince you that I would treat you like an employee, but I?m afraid that was too much of a challenge ?"
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"For me too. I just couldn?t think of you as my boss ?" "I loved it when you got jealous... then you told me to have a great weekend with Alisha James and I thought you were laughing at me!" Having long since arrived at its destination, the limo was at a standstill. Emerging from another embrace, Leos and Susie registered that fact about 10 minutes later. They rushed upstairs to Ben and told him what a wonderful baby he was. Secure in his parents? love, Ben yawned and fell asleep, as his parents held hands and dreamed of their future... DAY SIXTEEN: TUESDAY MORNING Four days later, the special license having been granted, Susie arrived at the church for their wedding. Her brother, David, had managed to fly back from the Middle East in time to give her away. Brigitte had volunteered to be her matron of honour and Petros was standing in as Leos?s best man. Ben sat back in his new luxury buggy and beamed at all his admirers. Wearing a gossamer-fine dress of lace and silk, Susie walked down the aisle with shining eyes. She had not a single doubt in her mind that she was loved. The weekend had passed in a non-stop blur of arrangements and excitement. They would live in London and in Corfu, where Leos also has a house. They were spending their wedding night at Leos?s London townhouse and then flying off the next day to a Caribbean villa. It was already decided that Ben?s birthday would be spent in Paris, possibly with a nanny in tow. Now that Leos got the woman he loved back, he could not plan far enough ahead. Leos watched Susie approach the altar with a smile that made her heart sing. Leos had decided that this time around everything would be different. When he had set her back from him on Friday evening with a determined air of restraint, she had been surprised but touched when he told her why. "The next time we make love I want you to be my wife, agape mou... " By Monday night, restraint, he had freely admitted, had become just about the toughest challenge he had ever set himself and he had indicated a willingness to be talked out of his vow. But Susie had had to rush off and meet her brother at the airport, so pressure of time had overcome that of temptation. Leaving the church, the ceremony over, Leos kissed her with hungry fervor. "How am I going to get through the photo session and the reception at the house?" "Like Mr. Cool... " Susie shivered with delicious excitement against him. Leos couldn?t take his dark tawny-golden eyes off her for a moment and she loved it. There were loads of photos of them looking deep into each other?s eyes. At the reception, it was quite impossible to separate them. When their guests had finally gone and Ben was asleep in his cot in his new room, the bridal couple finally reached the master bedroom. Although beautifully furnished, it had yet to be decorated. Susie was surprised. Leos smiled. "I told Alisha you would be taking care of this room ?" "When was that? Surely not that weekend you were mad at me?" "I was still hoping to marry you ?" Susie?s heart melted.
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"No way was I going to lose you a second time." Leos tugged her into rousing contact with his lithe, powerful frame. "I love you like I never thought I could love anybody." And being loved felt like the best thing that had ever happened to her, Susie reflected dreamily, as she gave herself up to another passionate kiss.
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The Duke's Dilemma by Margaret Moore We gave five authors from five different Harlequin and Silhouette series the same opening paragraph, and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The result is five very distinctive individual stories that are compelling, engaging and, of course, romantic! want to whet your appetite for romance? Read the opening paragraph we gave to the authors: Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fianc?. "John! I thought you were dead!"
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| Chapter One Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. "John! I thought you were dead!"
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As Charlotte fought to regain her composure, James?s gaze meandered over her simple silk gown, lingering for the briefest of moments on the embroidery around the neckline ? or her breasts ? before returning to her blushing cheeks. Angered by his impertinent scrutiny, she quickly closed the doors behind her, shutting out the music heralding the start of a quadrille. She wanted no one to hear them, or come out to see what was going on. And she wanted to know what the long-absent James was doing on the Duncans' balcony with her cousin, Dulcabella ? besides the obvious. *** Dulcie Duncan giggled and swayed, clearly the worse for the powerful punch full of rum, which was how their family had made their fortune, one large enough to overcome the stigma of having earned it in trade. The Duncan Distillery had even been granted a Royal Warrant to supply rum to the British Navy. "I just came out for a breath of air and he grabbed me and kissed me," Dulcie explained with a sodden grin. "I quite liked it." "Indeed?" Charlotte inquired as she regarded James, not troubling to hide her annoyance. "I daresay you did, for I have heard that the duke is quite accomplished in that, if nothing else." She took hold of her cousin?s arm, intending to lead her inside. "Come along, Dulcie. I think you should bid good-night to your guests." "Running away, are we?" James calmly inquired in his deep, husky voice ? the thing that distinguished him most from John. Otherwise, both men had the same dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, and brilliant blue eyes. Charlotte slowly wheeled around to face him. "I think if there is a person here who could be accused of running away, it would not be me, Your Grace." She watched as her words brought, for the briefest of moments, a look of what might have been remorse to those bright blue eyes. Yet if the Duke of Broverhampton felt anything deep in his cold heart in response to her accusation ? one she had been waiting years to make ? it was quickly gone, replaced by the cool tranquillity he had always possessed, even in his youth. John had been all fire and light and music; James had been dark and silent and cold as snow in January. Her cousin feebly yanked her arm out of Charlotte?s grasp, the action making her totter like a pile of teacups. "I want to schtay right here!" Dulcie protested as she grabbed on to James?s black waistcoat. "I think you should retire, cousin," Charlotte said with a tone of firm command. Dulcie pouted and stamped her slippered foot. "I don?t want to." "Dulcie, I really think you ought ?" "Well I don?t!" Stamp! Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw James?s lips jerk up into a smug grin, as if he was enjoying this show of defiance from the usually docile Dulcie. "Dulcabella, you should go before the ladies begin to gossip about the time you have been out here and with whom. Unless you want your season ruined before it is well under way, I suggest you go back into the ballroom, and preferably to bed. You have had too much punch." Charlotte?s words finally seemed to penetrate Dulcie?s drink-befuddled brain. She swallowed hard, then lurched back into the ballroom.
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Charlotte was about to follow her when James barred her way. He reached back and closed the balcony doors. "Let me pass," she ordered. He shook his head and stepped closer. "I have waited a long time to have a moment?s word with you." She inched away from him, until her back was against the wall and the ivy covering it. The foliage wasn?t the only reason the flesh there tickled, as James came closer until his body was mere inches from hers. Summoning her courage, Charlotte squared her shoulders. She would not let James?s predatory attitude frighten her. "If the wait was troublesome, perhaps you should have returned to England sooner. There was nothing to prevent you, especially when you inherited your title and the family fortune." "A fortune you did not get your greedy hands on, after all." Charlotte gasped. "I was not marrying your brother for his wealth!" James?s face betrayed his skepticism. "No?" "Certainly not!" He sidled closer, trapping her between the wall and his broad-shouldered body like a doe run to ground between a cliff and a pack of dogs. "Then why did you agree to marry him?" he asked in a husky whisper. "Because...because I loved him!" She put her palms on James?s chest and shoved, but it was like trying to budge a boulder. He caught her hands in his powerful grasp. "Love?" he scoffed. "What do you know of love but this?" he demanded as he hauled her close and captured her mouth with his. Chapter Two She had thought James cold? She had thought him lacking in passion? As James?s lips moved over Charlotte?s with firm and fiery purpose, she realized how wrong she had been. How very, very wrong... Which did not give him leave to kiss her, or her to enjoy it. Before she could shove him away, the balcony doors burst open. "Charlotte!" Uncle Malcolm cried as he stepped outside. "What are you doing?" While she stared, equally horrified, at her uncle and the well-dressed people crowding behind him, James moved away. He faced her uncle and quite calmly adjusted the cuffs of his waistcoat. "We were kissing." Uncle Malcolm?s jowls quivered with an indignation that matched Charlotte?s, now that the initial shock of discovery had passed. "Then, sir, you have not behaved like a gentleman!" "Indeed, he has not," Charlotte seconded, preparing to march past James, her uncle, and through the avidly curious onlookers. She could hear the scandalized whispers that would follow in her wake. Her reputation was already sullied by her fiancé's death, for surely the love of a good woman should have saved him from such despair. Therefore, the reasoning went, there must be some flaw in her. And now, to be found kissing her late fiancé's brother ?! James?s hand held her back and looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. "I have never claimed to be a gentleman."
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"How could you, since you are not? Now let me go!" He did not loosen his grasp as he once again faced her uncle, whose cheeks were getting progressively more flushed. "Gentleman or not, I am quite prepared to do the honorable thing, Mr. Duncan, and marry your niece." Charlotte stared at James. She couldn?t marry him! She hated him! And she had done nothing wrong here to cause her to be imprisoned in a marriage. "I would rather die!" "Like John?" His words pierced her heart like the thrust of a rapier. "How...how dare you!" she whispered as tears of anger and dismay leaped into her eyes."I dare because you as good as held the gun that killed him when you broke his heart." "I?" she gasped, incredulous. "I broke his heart?" "Your Grace, Charlotte," Uncle Malcolm said, obviously attempting to control his temper, "this is hardly the time or place for such accusations. I suggest you retire, Charlotte. As for you, Your Grace, you will please leave my house. You may call upon me at my offices tomorrow morning, where we shall discuss what is to be done. Now, Your Grace, I give you good night." James, the Duke of Broverhampton, smiled and inclined his head, then strode through the crowd which parted for him as they might a pauper who had intruded into their midst. *** Sitting in his barouche outside the offices of the Duncan Distillery, makers of Fine Rum and purveyors to the Royal Navy by the appointment of His Majesty, King George III, James wondered ? and not for the first time ? what the devil he was doing here. He should order his driver to take him home. Or to his club. Or even the closest tavern. Anything but beard old Malcolm Duncan in his den and explain that he did not wish to marry Charlotte. The offer had been made in the heat of the moment. And what heat. What unexpected, overwhelming heat. Charlotte clearly possessed the ability to drive a man to passionate ecstasy, if that was how she kissed when she supposedly did not want to be kissed. Or maybe she had. Could it be that despite her apparent animosity, she was setting her sights on the man who now had the wealth she craved? He mustn?t forget that she was a greedy, grasping creature who had broken his brother?s heart and destroyed his spirit when John had realized she was only marrying him for his title and money. That knowledge, and his shame at being duped, had driven John to take his life. If he married her as he had impulsively suggested because of some last, lingering vestige of chivalry called forth by the vulgar fascination on the faces of the guests last night, he might be playing right into her soft, yet avaricious, hands. Therefore, he must go to Mr. Duncan and rescind his offer. Such a thing would not enhance his reputation, but he could not concern himself with that. What he should concern himself with was making sure Charlotte knew he knew the kind of woman she was, despite his momentary lapse into forgetfulness, and that he intended to make sure the rest of the world knew it, too. That was why he had followed her out onto the balcony, or thought he had.
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He had mistaken Dulcie for Charlotte. The cousins looked enough alike that, attired in similar gowns and with their blond hair done in similarly Grecian styles, it was easy to mistake one for the other, especially across a crowded ballroom. So he had followed "Charlotte" and could not resist the urge to announce his presence with a kiss, only to realize the moment his mouth touched Dulcie?s that either he was kissing the wrong woman ? for it was no secret that Charlotte didn?t drink because her father had died after falling from his horse while inebriated ? or else he had his lips on a rum bottle. Whatever had happened last night, he finally decided, he could not and would not marry Charlotte. He alighted from the barouche and strode into the distillery, heading directly for Duncan?s office. He marched past the startled bevy of clerks perched on stools as they toiled at their high desks and entered the office without so much as a rap on the door. To find that Charlotte was already there. Or maybe it was Dulcie facing her father with her whole body rigid, her hands on her hips, and her bonnet?s white feather dancing. The young woman whirled around to face him, and he discovered it was indeed Charlotte. "What do you want?" she demanded, glaring at him. As always when faced with a nerve-racking situation ? which was always the situation when he was near the vivacious Charlotte ? he summoned up a mask of calm indifference, and answered truthfully. "I?ve come to tell your esteemed uncle that I have changed my mind and cannot marry you." Her green eyes flickered and a sardonic smile curved her full lips. "Good, because I am here to tell him the same thing." How her emerald green eyes sparkled like jewels when she was angry! How lovely she looked in that charming ensemble, including the ridiculous plume bobbing about like a writer?s quill penning a screed of its own volition. "Excellent. Then we are agreed." "Yes!" "So I see no need to remain here any longer." "Nor do I," Charlotte declared, pushing her way past him and slamming the office door with a bang like a cannon shot that probably sent the clerks scrambling for cover. Taking a deep breath, James bowed at the openmouthed Mr. Duncan. "Good day to you, sir, and I regret any inconvenience." Before he could turn away, Duncan heaved himself to his feet with surprising speed. "Not so fast, Your Grace. I would speak with you." James suppressed a sigh as he waited for the man to proceed. No doubt Duncan intended to berate him, and soundly, too. "You will either marry my niece, or I shall take you to court for breach of promise." Chapter Three James stared, slack-jawed, at Charlotte?s uncle. "Breach of promise?" he repeated in an incredulous whisper.
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Malcolm Duncan smiled with malicious pleasure. "Exactly. Several people heard you offer to marry her last night." "She didn?t accept!" Duncan waved his plump hand dismissively as he returned to his seat. "Women are fickle creatures, apt to change their minds." "But you can?t be serious! She hates me." "Does she?" James?s eyes widened even more, and even though his mind told him it must not, the small, hidden place in his heart where his hope had been buried cracked open. Charlotte had been living with her uncle since her father?s demise years ago; it could be he knew her well enough.... It didn?t matter. "Of course," he replied, burying the long-denied hope back where it belonged. "You heard her say she?d rather die than marry me." "Well, be that as it may," Duncan said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers, "the fact is, you?ve compromised my niece?s honor. Your family has already done her harm, and it?s about time one of you made it right." "My family did her harm?" "Aye," Duncan said, grave and firm as the bricks of his distillery. "She loved your brother and she was heartbroken when he died. And she?s blamed herself for far too long for what your brother did. Her reputation has suffered for it, too." "She did not love my brother, and she is to blame for what John did," James protested, every line of John?s last letter bemoaning his anguish and shame burned into his brain. If Charlotte mourned anything, it was the loss of his brother?s money. Duncan eyed him shrewdly, as if James were a merchant trying to sell him something of dubious quality. "Whatever you think of the past, it is last night I am most concerned with today. You compromised Charlotte?s honor, and you will do the honorable thing, one way or another, or you?ll be hearing from my solicitor." "I can afford the best solicitor in London to fight the suit." "Aye, I have no doubt, but fighting me will cost you a pretty penny, especially as these things can drag on for so long. In the meantime, no woman of character will trust you, should you wish to marry and create an heir. Of course, if you plan to remain a bachelor all your days, that may not trouble you." James did not plan to remain a bachelor. He wanted children, and not simply to provide an heir. He liked children. Many nights as he lay awake listening to his comrades in arms snoring and snorting and tossing and turning, he had envisioned leading the life of a country gentleman, surrounded by a loving family, married to...his brother?s fiancée. He flushed and pushed away that shameful memory. "Do you intend to threaten Charlotte into agreeing, too? Will you sue her, as well?" "Charlotte will do what is best for her." James scowled. "Of that I have no doubt," he said as he strode to the door. When he went out, he slammed it even harder than Charlotte had. ***
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"But, Papa, I don?t understand," Dulcie pouted a fortnight later as she sat on the arm of her father?s chair in his mahogany-paneled study, which smelled faintly of cheroots and pomade. "Why did you invite him to dinner again? Charlotte refuses to see him, and he sits here scowling like a bear whenever he comes. Why, they loathe each other!" "Of course they do," her father replied with a chortle as he chucked his beloved, but not overly intelligent, daughter on her round little chin. "I don?t intend that they should marry. I have other plans for the duke." He eyed Dulcie so significantly, even she caught on. "Me?" she squeaked. "You want him to marry me?" "Yes." He patted her arm. "The more annoyed he gets with Charlotte, the lovelier and more pleasant you will seem." Dulcie pouted again. "I thought I was pretty and pleasant." "Oh, you are, my dear, you are, and the duke can hardly fail to notice that fact every time he comes here." Dulcie?s pale forehead wrinkled with a frown. "Yet you said you?d sue him if he doesn?t marry Charlotte." "Only to ensure that he would stay in London and visit us. The moment he tells me he would rather marry you instead, all talk of breach of promise will be quite forgotten." Dulcie toyed with her rings and didn?t meet her father?s gaze. "That seems a bit hard on Charlotte, Papa, using her to lure the duke here to fall in love with me." "All?s fair in love and war, my dear. Indeed, we are really doing her a favor." He warmed to his subject. "The gossip will go against her if the duke doesn?t at least seem to be doing the honorable thing, but if he jilts her in your favor, she?ll appear to be the one hard done by. All the ladies will sympathize with her, even those who were so quick to blame her in that other unfortunate business." Dulcie continued to frown. "What if they blame me for stealing the duke away?" "They won?t," he assured her. "If there?s any blame in this, it will attach to him." He gave his daughter an indulgent smile. "Besides, what does it matter what they say if you marry a duke in the end?" Chapter Four Charlotte looked unseeing out the tall, narrow windows of the town house in Mayfair. She felt like a prisoner in her home ? or at least, her uncle?s home. She had never been completely comfortable living with her uncle and cousin, but after her father?s death, she had no other alternative. Now, with the unwelcome presence of the Duke of Broverhampton haunting her like a ghost, she felt more imprisoned than ever. She heard a small sound and turned away from the window, to find Dulcie standing near her dressing table. "Yes?" she asked, noting that her usually placid cousin looked worried and uncertain. Perhaps the strain of this forced marriage nonsense was wearing on her, too. "The duke is coming to dinner again." "So I heard from the downstairs maid." Dulcie chewed her lip and gazed at her beseechingly. "Charlotte, do you really not want to marry him?" "No." Not now. Not under these circumstances, although there had been a time.... "I do not understand why he doesn?t just let Uncle Malcolm sue him for breach of promise. I am more than ready to give evidence that
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I would be pleased to release him from his promise, such as it was. He can afford a good solicitor and surely that has to be more appealing to him than continuing this sham." Obviously relieved, Dulcie?s words came out in a torrential rush. "Papa thinks if the duke keeps coming here and you don?t see him, but he sees me, he might...that is, he might change his mind about marrying you and ask to marry me instead. He?s threatened to sue the duke not to ensure you marry him, but to keep him coming here." Charlotte stared at her, confused ? and yet, knowing Uncle Malcolm and his crafty mind, this could very well be true. "If this is so, why are you telling me, Dulcie?" Her cousin straightened her slender shoulders and her doelike brown eyes shone with more resolve than Charlotte had ever suspected she possessed. "Because I like you, Charlotte. You?ve been like a sister to me, and I don?t agree with Papa?s plan." Charlotte?s heart swelled. She had no idea Dulcie cared for her so much and she hurried to embrace her. "I appreciate your affection, and your honesty, Dulcie," she murmured, while also cursing herself for ever thinking ill of her cousin. "If you can win the duke?s heart, you are welcome to it." She silenced the nagging little voice in her heart that told her she was lying. "And you are kind to tell me that I am but bait." She drew back and regarded Dulcie gravely. "Shall I end this charade, then?" Just as grave, Dulcie nodded. "Yes, please. If I cannot attract his notice by better means, I do not deserve it." *** Listening at the top of the stairs, Charlotte hurried toward the drawing room the moment she heard the butler usher James toward it. Dulcie would be at least another hour dressing, her uncle several minutes. This was her best chance to have a private word with the duke. Despite her determination, she hesitated on the threshold when she saw him. He had one arm draped across the ornately carved marble mantel and was staring at the flames in the hearth, a look of such despondency on his face, she could scarcely believe this was the arrogant James Ellery. All this time, she thought he must be enraged over the situation, or disgusted, or frustrated. She had never imagined he would ever feel despair, about anything. She had always believed him different from John in that, as well. He must have heard her, for he looked up, and was immediately once more the coolly indifferent nobleman. "So, you have finally decided to venture down from your tower, Rapunzel." She perched on the scarlet velvet seat of a gilded chair. "You must ignore my uncle's threat of a lawsuit and stop coming here." "Perhaps it amuses me to allow people to think I have a vestige of honor, after all, by agreeing to marry you," he said as he sat on the brocade sofa opposite her. "He doesn?t really want to sue you." That caused the duke to raise an inquisitive brow. "Then he is a finer actor than I gave him credit for, for he certainly conducts himself as if he does." "He wants you to fall in love with Dulcie, and he thinks the threat of legal action, which compels you to appear to be engaged to me, and which therefore requires you to call here, is an excellent way to throw the two of you together."
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For a moment, James looked incredulous, then his lip curled in a sneer. "He does, does he?" "Now that you know that, you can drop this pretense of an engagement between us. I?m sure once he understands you cannot be bullied, he will reconsider suing you." "My reason for continuing to call here has little to do with any man?s ability to bully me, and more to do with my enjoyment of your discomfort that this engagement causes you ? some small recompense for the pain you caused my brother." Annoyed that he persisted in blaming her for his brother?s death, she jumped to her feet, her hands balling into fists at her side. "How many times must I tell you I did nothing to cause him pain? I was as shocked as anyone when he killed himself, and I have spent hours and hours thinking over all that I said and did in the days before, wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent it, but I saw no signs that he was so despondent. I thought he was happy we were to be married." "Then you, madam, are either the most coldhearted, calculating woman...or the most accomplished liar...I have ever met." James rose and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out an old, creased piece of paper. "Read John?s own words, and find yourself condemned as a scheming fortune hunter who never loved him. Hear from John himself how that discovery humiliated and destroyed him until he could not bear to live." He thrust the paper at her. "You may keep this. I will never forget what he says in this letter if I live a hundred years. And to think that once I ?" He fell silent, then turned on his heel and marched from the room. Chapter Five A few minutes later, Charlotte dashed into the street. She could see the carriage with the ducal crest rounding the corner and took off after it like a Bow Street Runner pursuing a thief, John?s plaintive letter clutched in her hand. Mercifully, the carriage had to wait to let another, even finer, vehicle pass before turning into the next street. Regardless of the startled coachman, or anyone else who could observe her, Charlotte ran up to the carriage and pounded on the door. "James, you must let me explain!" The window of the carriage came down with a crash, and James?s angry face appeared. "If you have read the letter, there is nothing to explain." "Yes, there is," she insisted, "and I shall scream if you don?t let me in!" For a moment it looked as if James was going to refuse, but then he said, "Stand out of the way." He opened the door and kicked out the folding steps for her to climb inside. "You?ll catch your death running about London without a wrap," he noted as she scrambled onto the seat opposite him in a decidedly unladylike fashion. "I don?t care." After closing the door, James knocked on the roof of the carriage. "Drive on, Charles," he ordered, and the carriage lurched into motion. "Well, Charlotte, this will certainly set the tongues to wagging, even more than our embrace. Is that your intention?" "I had no idea John had found my diary. He should not have read it." James frowned. "Oh, so my brother?s curiosity excuses your behavior?"
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"He read my private thoughts, which he had no right to do. Even so, I would have explained if he had asked me." "What possible explanation could there be but the obvious. John was very clear about what he found in your diary ? your obvious passion for another man, your desire to be with him, your dismay that you could not. Surely you cannot fault him for believing you did not love him, the man you had pledged to marry? What else was he, or any wealthy, titled man of reason to think but that you were marrying him for those things, and not himself?" "That?s not it." Now that the time had come to tell the whole truth, Charlotte hardly knew where to begin. Or if she should even try. And yet she could not forget what he had implied only moments ago, something that had made her heart race even as she read John?s letter. If she did not tell James everything now, she might regret it for the rest of her lonely life. "The diary John found was not a recent one. I haven?t kept one for three years, well before I became engaged to your brother. I did love another man then, passionately. But nothing came of it. I thought he didn?t care for me, for he never paid me much attention. When he went away, I thought that was the end of it. I believed it was the end of it, and still believing it, conceived an affection for John. I did care for him, truly, and it breaks my heart anew to realize that he died because he didn?t believe that." "Maybe your passion for this unknown lover was not as dead as you claimed," James replied. "The diary alone would not have been enough to cause John such despair. There must have been something else." "You have been away a long time, James. John was not the lad you left when he took his life. He was jealous of any man who glanced at me, and nothing I said seemed to alleviate his fears. He would rage at me, and for no reason. Any little thing would set him off. Even if he had never found the diary, he might have despaired of my love enough to end his life anyway." "Then you no longer love this man you wrote about?" "I thought I did not," she said, her gaze searching his face. "I thought he did not love me." Willing himself to feel nothing ? not envy as he had felt for John when he had announced his engagement, or remorse for keeping his feelings buried for so long ? James turned to stare out the window. "I?ll order Charles to return you to your uncle?s house. Our engagement is officially over, and I?ll leave you alone. You are free, Charlotte." "Oh, James," she cried, moving to sit beside him and taking his face between her chilly palms as the letter fluttered to the floor. "It was you I wrote about in the diary. After you went away, I thought I could forget you and what I felt for you, that I could love John, that we could be happy. I was devastated when he died. You must believe me, James." Her hands dropped limply to her lap. "But now I see that you are right, too. I did deceive him." She raised her stricken eyes to look at him. "Yet I didn?t know it, because I was deceiving myself, too. I didn?t realize that I agreed to marry John because he was so much like you." Finally, she had confessed ? but it was not at all what he had expected. Nor was she the only one guilty of keeping secrets that had led to such disastrous consequences. Full of remorse for all that he had done and not done, James grabbed her hands and clasped them between his. "I do believe you, Charlotte, and I?m so sorry for how I?ve misjudged and mistreated you. I?ve loved you for years, but I was too shy to say so. You always seemed so bold, so confident, I thought you would laugh at me. And then when I realized how John felt about you, I was sure I didn?t stand a chance, so I went away. If I had stayed home and made my feelings known, how different things might have been! John would still be alive and we could have been married." "While we cannot bring John back, we are engaged now," she reminded him. By God, she was right. They were engaged. They could be married. There would be scandal and gossip and rumors, but he didn?t care. All he cared about was Charlotte as he pulled her close and kissed her. All the
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passion and desire and yearning he had been trying to hide and destroy for years burst free. She returned his kiss with the same heated passion, the same fierce desire, the same anxious yearning. "Poor uncle!" she murmured a few moments later, arching her neck as James?s lips slid slowly lower. "He will be so disappointed." "Right now, I don?t give a damn about the man." "And if it hadn?t been for dear Dulcie..." James drew back, a slight frown darkening his face. "I must say, Miss Duncan, I am not pleased that you can ignore my kisses." "I?m not ignoring them," she said, putting her finger between his cravat and his shirt as she gave him a devilish smile. "I?m enjoying them very much. I?m just feeling rather sorry for Dulcie." He watched her proceed to pull off his cravat. "If it will make you feel better, there?s a fine young gentleman I know I can invite to the wedding and make sure your cousin meets. I think they would make a lovely couple." "That does make me feel better," Charlotte whispered as she gathered a fistful of his shirt and pulled him to her. "Now let me see if you can ignore my kisses." He didn?t even try. Indeed, they would have made love then and there if the coach had not tottered to a halt. "If you come into my house now and with your gown in such a state, it will cause a great scandal, Charlotte," he panted, his words grave, but his eyes dancing with joy as they moved apart. Charlotte laughed merrily, and not a little breathlessly. "You are in a state of dishabille yourself, Your Grace," she said as she threw open the carriage door and caution to the wind. "And I don?t care if all the world knows we are in love."
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TAKING A RISK by Brenda Novak Gabrielle Tucker is happy at last. She's married to her soul mate, and she's been reunited with her long-lost mother — and the sister she never knew she had. Now if only she could see her ex-husband and best friend, David, find true happiness of his own… But it just so happens that Gabrielle knows the perfect woman for David — her little sister, Lindy! Lindy fell in love with David on their first date — a date arranged by her sister, Gabrielle. But it's obvious that David isn't over Gabrielle, even though she's now happily married to someone else. Which is why it's going to be very hard for Lindy to tell David that the one night of passion they shared has changed all of their lives forever…
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE Mesa, Arizona "How can it be almost ninety degrees? It's the second of December, for crying out loud," Lindy Sims complained, slouching onto her sister's sofa and kicking off her heels. "What are you complaining about? It's beautiful outside." Gabrielle Tucker piled the lunch dishes in the sink, scooped up her seventeen-month-old daughter, Allie, and joined Lindy on the couch. "We live in the desert. It's always beautiful outside," Lindy replied, toying with the cell phone in her lap. "What I wouldn't give for a rain cloud." "Quit trying to change the subject," Gabrielle said. "I'm not trying to change the subject." Her sister gave her the evil eye. "Every time I want to talk about David, you change the subject." Lindy glanced at her watch, suddenly anxious to leave. She was a district attorney fairly new at her job, so work kept her busy. But she had another twenty minutes before she needed to head back to the office, and Gabrielle knew it. "That's not true. There's just nothing to say. You set me up with your ex-husband. We went out to dinner. He never called me again. End of story," she said. But that wasn't the end of the story. Not by a long shot. Gabrielle straightened the bow in her daughter's hair. "You had a good time with him." Lindy couldn't deny that, so she said nothing. "Why not let me set you up with him again?" Gabrielle asked. Too nervous to remain sitting, Lindy tossed her cell phone aside and stood up to stare out the living room window of Gabrielle's new four-bedroom home. "If he liked me, he'd ask me out himself." "David's a wonderful guy, but sometimes he doesn't know what's good for him. And maybe I'm mistaken, but it seemed as though there was a spark between you two. When you called me the morning after he took you to dinner, I got the impression you really liked him."
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Lindy put a self-conscious hand to her stomach. She had liked him - well enough to make one of the biggest mistakes of her life. At some point, she was going to have to tell Gabrielle about that mistake. But she wasn't ready yet. She and her half-sister were close, but they'd only found each other three months ago. Three months wasn't nearly long enough for Gabrielle to know that Lindy's actions that night had been completely out of character. Lindy was generally conservative, cautious and slow to trust. She still wasn't sure what had happened with David to change all of that. One minute they were having dinner and a glass of wine. The next they were opening another bottle at his place while watching a movie. And then... Her cheeks began to burn. Steering her thoughts away from what had followed, she glanced at her watch again. "I'd better get back." "You've got a minute," Gabrielle said. "If I can talk David into asking you out for New Year's, will you say yes? Randall and I have tickets to a Creed concert. We want you to join us." Lindy felt like banging her head against the glass. Because of David, she was going to be a single parent. She and Gabrielle would be shuttling their kids off to the same man every weekend. And she didn't have any idea how to break the news.... "You're wasting your time with me and David," she said. "He's not interested." Gabrielle sighed. "If he wasn't so stubborn, he'd see that you two are perfect for each other." Perfect for each other... Lindy had thought she'd finally found the man of her dreams. Until he'd awkwardly apologized in the morning for what had happened in the night, driven her home and never contacted her again. "Evidently, he doesn't think I'm so great," she said. "He just doesn't know you the way I do." David didn't know a lot of things — one thing in particular. And Lindy wasn't looking forward to telling him.... CHAPTER TWO David Hadley was busy at his mortgage company in Tempe — DH Home Loans — when Gabrielle called. But he thought she or Allie might need him, so he asked Peter Vaughn at Sunrise Bank and Loan if he could call him back about the Coopers' refinance and switched to the other line. "Hi, Gabby. What's up?" "I'm planning a Christmas party," she said brightly. "In this heat?" "It's still Christmastime." True, but you just moved in. Aren't you exhausted?" "Not really. We only came from Florence, and we're nearly settled. I'm using this as an excuse to invite my new neighbors over. Because of all the publicity surrounding the murder of Randall's first wife, I think they might be a little leery of having us live so close." "I already know Tucker," he said. "You don't have to convince me he's an upstanding citizen." "I'm inviting you for moral support." David didn't think Gabby needed moral support. She was happier now than he'd ever seen her. More likely, she was trying to throw him and Tucker together again. She cared about them both, so she wanted them to care about each other. But David doubted that was ever going to happen. A man didn't lose the love of his life to another man and get over it that easily.
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But it was wiser to dodge the issue than try to explain. "I'm pretty busy," he said. "I haven't given you the date." "If it's a Christmas party, you're having it this month, right? I'm busy throughout December." "You're not planning to see Allie for the next several weeks?" she asked skeptically. She had him and he knew it. Of course he was planning to see his daughter. He took Allie every chance he got. But going to Gabrielle's party was different. There, he and Tucker would have to hang out and pretend to be friends. And — A thought crossed David's mind that made him even more reluctant. "Is Lindy going to be there?" "Probably," she replied. "But that's not a problem, is it? Lindy's great. You told me yourself that you think she's attractive." She was attractive. But he'd had too much to drink when they went out and wound up using Lindy to drown his sorrows over Gabrielle. That night wasn't something he was proud of, which meant seeing Lindy again wasn't going to make him any more comfortable than buddying up with Tucker. "When?" he asked, so he could come up with a more specific excuse. "This coming Friday." "It's already Monday. That's not a lot of notice." "I'm just having an open house. You come, you eat, you go. You can be in and out in twenty minutes or less. And you can take Allie home with you." "But that isn't my weekend." "I know." "I'll be there," he said. CHAPTER THREE Lindy held Allie and hung out near the punchbowl, even though she drank nothing but soda. Being pregnant meant she had to watch a few things — her caffeine and alcohol intake, for starters. But those were only the small changes. She'd never stepped foot inside a maternity shop or visited an obstetrician more than once a year. Now she was going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe and schedule her life around monthly, and then weekly, checkups. She'd have to come up with a good childcare arrangement for after the baby was born, so she could continue to work, and — She pressed her forehead against Allie's. "What have I gotten myself into?" she whispered, but Allie only grinned and clapped her chubby hands, convinced that Aunt Lindy was playing another game with her. "It was wonderful to meet you. Thanks for coming," Lindy heard Gabrielle say at the door. "Thanks for inviting us," the woman of the young family who was just leaving replied. "You have a lovely home." The door closed, and Lindy felt her nerves grow taut as silence engulfed the house. The party was winding down. Only a few stragglers remained outside on the deck near the pool, a couple of men who were talking to Randall and Randall's eight-year-old son, Landon. Lindy had spent the entire day at Gabrielle's house
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helping prepare for the party, then serving food and playing with Allie, but mostly waiting for an opportunity to talk to Gabrielle. She'd decided to tell Gabrielle about the baby and get it over with so she could sleep at night. "You look tired," Gabrielle said, entering the room again. "You want me to take Allie?" "No." Allie gave her someone to cling to. "I'm not too tired. I've just had a busy week." And the biggest emotional blow of my life. A curious look crossed Gabrielle's face. She opened her mouth to say something else, but the doorbell interrupted. Thinking she'd been granted a momentary reprieve, Lindy breathed a sigh of relief — until she recognized David's voice. What was he doing here? Gabrielle had said she was having her neighbors over. She'd mentioned nothing about her ex-husband. And Lindy knew for a fact that this wasn't David's week to have Allie. She and Gabrielle had gone shopping last Saturday while he had the baby. "Sorry I'm late," she heard him say. "I had to work." "More likely you were hoping to miss my party," Gabrielle replied. He didn't bother to deny it. "Did I have any luck?" "For the most part. Only a few people are left. Come in." Lindy glanced around, wondering where she could disappear. She'd mentally prepared herself to tell Gabrielle today, but she wasn't ready for David. Putting Allie down, she started for the hall, thinking the bathroom was the most logical place. But Allie squealed in protest the second she moved away — and Gabrielle called to her before she could get far enough to pretend not to hear. "Lindy, look who finally arrived!" Slowly, Lindy turned and forced a smile. "Hi, David," she managed to say. CHAPTER FOUR Evidently David hadn't delayed his appearance long enough. "Hi, Lindy," he said, nodding politely. "How are things at work?" "Busy." "I bet." An awkward silence fell almost immediately, and David tried to cover it by reaching for Allie. "Hey, babe. You ready to come to Daddy's?" "You're not leaving so soon, are you?" Gabrielle said as he lifted Allie into his arms. "You haven't even said hello to Randall." Through the window, David could see Tucker standing in the backyard with Landon and a couple of people he didn't know. "I wouldn't want to miss Tucker," he said, being careful to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "But it looks like he's busy. There's no need to interrupt him."
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"He won't mind. He asked me where you were just a few minutes ago." Wonderful. As David started to follow Gabrielle out for the inevitable greeting, he noticed Lindy inching the other way. "Well, I'd better get going," she said. "Er, good to see you, David." She turned and headed straight for the door, but Gabrielle caught her by the arm. "Wait! Where are you going?" "Home," she said. "But you said you'd go to the late movie with us after the party ended, remember? I have a sitter lined up and everything." "Oh...right." Her eyes settled on David, then darted away. Gabrielle gave him a wide smile. "And David doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to twist his arm into joining us." David felt some real alarm. This little encounter was awkward enough. He had no plans to prolong the agony. "Gabby, I have to get back." "To what?" she demanded. He groped for an excuse, but it was nearly nine o'clock on a Friday night, which meant it would be nine-thirty by the time he got home. It wasn't likely he'd be taking Allie tonight, and Gabrielle already knew he wasn't seeing anyone. They were close friends and spoke on the telephone two or three times a week. "I just... It's been crazy at work. I have some catching up to do." "You know what they say about all work and no play." She steered them out through a set of double French doors. "Look who's here," she announced. Tucker acknowledged him with a tip of his beer. When they were closer, he offered his hand. "Good to see you, man. How's life been treating you?" His life had been much better before, David decided. Before Tucker. Before Lindy. Before he let Gabrielle sucker him into attending this little party. CHAPTER FIVE Lindy didn't want to sit through a two-hour movie smelling the subtle scent of David's cologne and remembering that night at his place three months ago. It was too embarrassing and hurtful to believe that what had been an incredible experience for her had meant nothing to him. But even though she'd made it a point to enter the row first, right before Gabrielle, Gabrielle had sent Randall out to get some popcorn and a drink. Then Randall had decided he wanted some candy and left again while Gabrielle went to the rest room. Reluctant to be alone with David, Lindy quickly visited the rest room herself. By the time she returned, there was only one seat left, and it was right where she didn't want to be — sandwiched between Randall and David. Obviously, Gabrielle was working against her. Damn it, Gabby, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. She silently cursed as she sat down. But deep inside, she knew she couldn't blame Gabrielle for what had happened the night she and David had gone out. Gabrielle hadn't forced her to respond when David tilted his head during that video and pressed his lips to hers. Gabrielle hadn't had anything to do with the way she'd pulled him closer and opened her mouth to allow him to deepen the kiss, the way she'd reveled in the solid feel of his arms around
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her. Desire had flared so quickly and powerfully, Lindy wasn't sure when or how she could've stopped what had happened. In a very short time, David had managed to excite her in a way she'd never experienced with any other man. And yet... She squeezed her eyes closed. She should have stopped somehow. The warmth of David's arm next to her own made Lindy slide closer to Randall, so she wouldn't be so aware of him. But then her brother-in-law glanced at her a little curiously, probably wondering why she was nearly crawling into his lap, and she made herself sit in the perfect center of her seat without moving so she wouldn't brush arms with either one of them. Her back was aching before the movie was half-over. She surreptitiously pushed the light button on her watch so she could see the time, wondering how she herself was going to survive another hour and five minutes trying to be half her normal size, when David leaned over and said, "Relax, I won't bite." His voice was polite and impersonal, certainly nothing like it had been the night they'd made love. For some reason, his lack of emotion stung. Suddenly Lindy couldn't sit next to him any longer. She shouldn't have let Gabrielle talk her into coming, she realized. She had to go. Getting up, she slipped past David without saying a word and simply walked out of the theater. But when she reached the street, she didn't know what to do. They'd all ridden in Randall's SUV.... Briefly, she considered calling a cab. But she knew she had only a few minutes before Gabrielle came into the lobby looking for her. So she tied the lightweight jacket she'd brought around her waist, because it still felt like summer, and hurried away on foot. CHAPTER SIX David let his breath go in one big sigh as he stood facing the door to Lindy's house. He told himself he was crazy for coming, especially at one o'clock in the morning. But he'd purposely left Allie with Gabrielle for the night so he could talk to Lindy. After she'd disappeared from the movies, he knew he needed to clear the air. He knew she'd left because of him. He frowned as he remembered Gabrielle's confusion and concern when Lindy didn't return — and how frantically she'd tried to reach her on her cell. Lindy hadn't picked up until well after midnight. When she finally answered, she'd made up some excuse about feeling sick and not wanting to make them miss the movie. But she'd admitted to not taking a cab, which meant she'd walked nearly five miles. She couldn't have been too sick. Pinching the bridge of his nose, David tried to formulate what he wanted to say. He'd certainly never meant to take advantage of her or hurt her in any way. She was a sharp, sexy woman. Sleeping with her had been... Well, it had been a lot of things, but mostly it had been a mistake. It was way too fast, way too soon, way too intense. After what he'd been through with Gabrielle, he wasn't about to get seriously involved so soon, especially with a woman so closely tied to his ex-wife. He gave the door a quick, decisive knock. "Lindy? It's David." She didn't answer right away, but he doubted she was asleep. Gabrielle had hung up with her only seconds before he drove over and there were still lights on in the back of the house. More likely, she just wasn't happy about having him at her door. "Lindy? Come on. I think we should talk. It's not like we can avoid each other forever. As long as we're both part of Gabby's and Allie's lives, we're going to bump into each other at almost every family function."
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The porch light snapped on over his head, the door opened, and David could see that Lindy had changed into a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt and piled her shoulder-length blond hair on top of her head. She looked freshly scrubbed and almost childishly innocent as she blinked at him with her clear blue eyes. "You really didn't need to come by," she said, offering him a propped-up smile. "I'm feeling better already." She started to close the door, but he caught it before it could latch. "Wait a second. Can I come in?" She hesitated. "It's late and —" "Just for a minute," he said. Again he read indecision on her face, but she eventually stepped back and motioned him inside. Located in the older part of Mesa, near Main Street, her house was small and probably thirty years old. But someone had recently remodeled the inside. Several walls had been knocked out, the kitchen, which was now completely white and almost spacious, had new tile and appliances, and the rooms he could see were decorated with such a modern twist that David felt as though he'd just stepped into a trendy New York apartment. "Nice place," he said, hoping to ease the tension. "Thanks." "You still live alone?" "For now." She tucked a fallen strand of straw-blond hair behind her ear. "I'm in the process of remodeling the back bathroom. I'll run an ad in the paper once I get the place livable." "Makes sense." He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was running out of small talk, it was late, and he wanted to go home. "Listen, Lindy, I came by because I feel terrible that you can't even sit through a movie with me after...after what happened. I know I was way out of line that night. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you the way I did. I'd had too much to drink and —" "And you're terribly sorry. I know," she said. "You've already apologized, remember?" "But —" "Please." She put up a hand to stop him. "A girl can only take so much remorse." She laughed selfconsciously. "Problem is, there's nothing we can do about it now." "We can agree to forget it," he said. She shook her head. "I'm afraid that's not possible." "Why not?" Her eyes were troubled when she looked up at him. "Because I'm pregnant." CHAPTER SEVEN David gaped at her as though she'd shot him. He blinked and rubbed his chest, then his mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
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Lindy was afraid to hear what he might ask as soon as he found his voice. "Are you sure it's mine?" That degrading question had to be one of the first. He had no way of knowing that she hadn't been with anyone else since she'd broken up with Mac over four years ago. Instead, he said, "But we used a —" He seemed to realize the fallibility of their choice of protection because he fell silent for a second before finishing with a weak "It didn't work, huh?" She shook her head. "You're sure?" "I'm positive." He took a deep, audible breath. "I don't know what to say." "You don't have to say anything," she replied. "I won't get an abortion. I won't put the baby up for adoption." "I don't think I would have suggested either of those things." "Well, you don't need to worry about it, because I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I've decided that I'm perfectly willing to raise this child on my own. I feel it's only fair that I give you a choice, of course. But you can walk away, if you like. And I won't tell a soul you were involved at all, especially Gabrielle. She doesn't even know about the baby yet." "Gabrielle," he said, smacking his forehead. "She sets me up with her sister, and I get her pregnant the first night. God, what was I thinking?" Lindy had known this would probably be painful, but she couldn't help wincing at his self-recrimination even though she deserved every heartfelt pang. Throughout their dinner together, he'd made several comments that made it pretty clear he was still in love with Gabrielle, but she'd liked him so much she'd chosen to disregard them. "Allie and this baby will be half-siblings," he said, the ramifications obviously starting to come home to him. "They're first cousins, too," she replied, talking fast now that her decision had been made. "That already makes them family. They'll be close with or without your involvement." "I can't see you and..." he glanced at her stomach "...this baby at Allie's birthday parties and pretend I have no connection. I — I can't just ignore this." "Yes, you can," Lindy said. "This was my fault. I knew you were still in love with Gabrielle. I just didn't want to face it." She'd known how happy Gabrielle and Randall were, knew David would have to move on eventually, and thought she'd be able to help him. Which basically meant she'd been naive and stupid and now she had to pay the price. CHAPTER EIGHT David lay in bed feeling numb. Gabrielle's sister was pregnant. With his baby. From one night's encounter. What was he going to do? He automatically thought of Allie and how much he loved her. Kids were great. He'd wanted several. Only he'd always pictured Gabrielle as the mother of his children. Now Gabrielle was married to Tucker and would probably be having Tucker's child someday. And David was...what?
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Confused, he decided. Evidently being divorced wasn't bad enough. He'd had to go and get a woman he barely knew pregnant. He heard Lindy's voice in his head, saying that he was still in love with Gabrielle and wondered if it were true. How did a man draw a line between loving a woman in a certain way before and loving her in a different way now? The phone rang. He glanced over at the digital clock on his nightstand and knew it had to be Lindy. Who else would be calling him at three o'clock on this crazy night? He didn't want to answer. He needed some time to think before he spoke to her again. Unless telling him she was pregnant had just been her idea of a cruel joke, a way to pay him back for what had happened... "Hello?" he said, snatching up the phone before it could stop ringing. "David?" It was Gabrielle, not Lindy. "Did I wake you?" "No." Stifling a groan, David closed his eyes and let his head fall back on his pillow. He'd told Gabrielle he'd stop by Lindy's and then call to let her know that Lindy was okay. But he'd forgotten. And he wasn't sure what to say about his visit, anyway. At the moment, Lindy wasn't okay. Neither was he. "What happened?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "Didn't you go to Lindy's?" "I dropped by, yeah." "Why didn't you call me? I've tried and tried to reach her and keep getting her message machine." "She's probably asleep." "She's been acting so strange the past couple of weeks," she said. "I'm really starting to worry about her. Did she say why she didn't tell us she was leaving the movie?" "No." David propped the phone up with his shoulder so he could rub both temples. Gabrielle was obviously looking for reassurance, but he wasn't the person to provide it. After what he'd done, his conscience wouldn't allow him to make any promises about Lindy's well-being. "Was she very sick?" "She said she was feeling better." "Hang on." In the background, David could hear Tucker trying to convince Gabrielle to come to bed by telling her they'd visit Lindy first thing in the morning. She finally agreed and told David she had to go. But long after David had severed the connection, he couldn't stop thinking about Gabrielle saying, "I've tried and tried to reach her and keep getting her message machine." Why wasn't Lindy picking up? Certainly she wasn't depressed enough to...
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CHAPTER NINE Lindy heard pounding at her door, but she was reluctant to wake up. It had taken her too long to fall asleep in the first place, and she really didn't want to start thinking again. Her head hurt from all the thinking she'd done already. But then she heard David's voice. "Lindy, it's me." "Again?" she muttered and dragged herself out of bed. This time when she answered the door, David was wearing a pair of faded jeans that looked far too good on him, a T-shirt and a pair of moccasinlike shoes. "You're wearing slippers," she said, blinking bleary-eyed at his feet. "I was in bed." "Then what are you doing here? I thought you wanted some time to think about...things." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "You haven't been answering your phone." "It's nearly five o'clock in the morning. Did it ever cross your mind that I might be sleeping?" "I figured that was the case, but then I thought maybe... I mean, you seemed pretty upset when I left, and I didn't know if..." He scowled. "Gabrielle was worried," he finished abruptly. "Oh, so you're on an errand for Gabrielle. Well, now you can call her back and tell her I'm fine." "I wasn't running her errands," he said. "She and Tucker are coming over here in the morning to check on you themselves. I was just — never mind." He started to go, but Lindy was suddenly eager to take advantage of the opportunity to resolve some of the issues between them. She needed to know how to plan so she could start moving ahead with her life instead of bemoaning the past. And there seemed little point in waiting. She and David didn't know each other well. He was in love with someone else. And she refused to become some sort of charity case to him. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of this baby on my own," she said. "I really don't need any help from you." "You told me that already," he said, walking away. "Why don't we just go with that then?" she called after him. "I'm sure we can work out some type of arrangement where we don't have to see each other more than once or twice a year. Gabrielle might not like the fact that we won't attend the same functions, but she doesn't have to like it, does she? We don't always get what we want. We —" "I'll call you tomorrow." "Wait! There's no need to call. We're in agreement here, right?" "I haven't agreed to anything." "Maybe this baby doesn't even belong to you," she said, saying exactly what she'd been afraid he'd say — because she was already tired of being his biggest mistake. What did she care what he thought of her? She didn't want him around, making her feel like sloppy seconds. She didn't need him. And neither would her
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baby. She was a successful individual, and she'd get everything figured out...eventually. "I live a pretty wild lifestyle," she added. "What happened didn't mean anything to me, either." He stopped and turned to face her. "Is that true?" Lindy wanted to ask, "Which part?" But his answer didn't matter. It was all a lie. "No." "Good, because I don't think it's funny," he said. Then he climbed into his SUV and drove off. CHAPTER TEN "It's not like you to be late," Gabrielle said when David knocked on her door at just past noon Saturday morning. "Don't tell me you slept in." "Actually I did," he said. "Is Allie ready to go?" She looked up at him, and he realized he'd been a little too abrupt. "Don't you want to come in and say hello before you leave?" He stretched his neck, grappling for patience. But after the sleepless night he'd just spent, patience seemed in short supply. "I can't, not today. I've got a few errands to run." "Oh." She hesitated. "Well, a few days ago you mentioned you were thinking about investing in some real estate. So I talked to Randall about the various properties he's seen on the market, and —" "I wouldn't be interested in anything as large as the properties Tucker's taking on," David interrupted, glancing into the living room to see if he could spot Allie. "I realize that, but he knows of a nice piece of land not far from where you live that could be divided into five good-size lots. He said it would be a perfect project for someone like you, who's local, who's new to real estate and who wants to learn. He even said he'd help you take them through the finishing process, if you want." "That's nice of him," David said, wishing he could muster more sincerity in his voice. Before Tucker's first wife was murdered, Tucker had been a very wealthy, successful developer. He was just getting started again now, but David had no doubt he'd climb back on top before too long. "Still, I'd rather handle any investing I do on my own, thanks." "You don't even want to talk to him about it?" "No." Her smile finally wilted completely. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her before lowering her voice. "David, can't you give Randall a chance? Please? He's doing everything he possibly can to make things as pleasant for the rest of us as possible." "And life couldn't be better," David said. "Please thank him for me." "What's that supposed to mean?" With a sigh, David jammed a hand through his hair. "Nothing. It doesn't mean anything." "What's going on with you?" she asked. "Are you ever going to let bygones be bygones? You won't even call Randall by his first name."
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"I don't want to talk about your husband right now. I have other things on my mind." "Like..." "Stuff at work," he lied. He could tell that his manner had offended her again. He and Gabrielle generally talked freely about everything, regardless of their divorce. But he wasn't about to share his most recent problems with anyone, especially Gabrielle — at least not until he and Lindy decided how they were going to handle the situation. *** Lindy had to do something to keep herself busy. She had plenty of work on her desk at the office — she always had plenty of work there — but she didn't have the emotional fortitude to tackle anything that required deep thought. Not today. She needed a mindless activity to occupy her Saturday morning, something physical to work off the anxiety that had plagued her ever since she learned about the baby.... Dragging the vacuum out of the coat closet, she began cleaning her house with a zeal rarely shown for such mundane tasks. But all the zeal in the world couldn't stop her from worrying about the future. What would David eventually decide? And when would she know? Last night, he hadn't taken the easy escape she'd offered him. Deep down, she'd suspected he wouldn't. She'd seen how he was with Allie, knew how much he loved kids. But knowing David would be involved in her life, in some capacity, from the moment the baby was born didn't comfort her. She hated feeling as though she was twisting his arm in some way, hated feeling responsible for their predicament. She yanked the vacuum plug from the wall. She needed an ego boost, she decided. She needed something to love that would be almost guaranteed to love her back. CHAPTER ELEVEN "Hello?" Lindy said, dropping her keys on the counter. She was breathless from bursting into her house and rushing for the phone, but she was feeling significantly better than she'd been feeling this morning. She'd just visited the pound and adopted a dog. She'd wanted a puppy, of course. But there weren't many puppies at the pound today. And everyone wanted a puppy. This dog's mournful eyes had won her over at first sight. "Lindy?" It was David. "Yes?" she said, tensing. "I was hoping we could get together tonight." "What for?" she asked, watching her new pet sniff around the house. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, you hear me?" she told the dog. "What did you say?" David asked. She sat on the floor, hoping to coax her new friend over so she could scratch him behind the ears. "I wasn't talking to you." "Oh, well, what do you say about having dinner with me tonight?" Lindy pictured spending the evening in David's company, feeling guilty for ruining his life, and decided not to put herself through the torment. He hadn't wanted to take her out a second time before he knew she was pregnant. She didn't want him to feel any obligation to do so now. Besides, she had her dog to think about. She wouldn't want to leave Max to his own devices quite so soon. She had too many pairs of expensive shoes to protect. "I'm afraid I have other plans."
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He remained silent for a second. "Okay. What about tomorrow? It's Sunday. We could do brunch." "I don't think so." This time David's pause was significantly longer. "Why do I get the impression you're going to say no to anything I suggest?" "Because there's no reason for you to feel as though you have to spend any time with me. You only need to decide whether or not you want to be part of this baby's life." "And if I decide that I do?" "Then I'll call you after the baby's born and arrange visitation." Max headed down the hall, and Lindy quickly rose to her feet. "I've got to go," she said. "He's heading for my bedroom." *** David sat staring at the phone. Who was heading for Lindy's bedroom? Pressing the disconnect button, he quickly got a dial tone and called Gabrielle. "Is your sister seeing someone?" he asked. "What?" "Lindy. Is she seeing someone?" "No, why?" "When was her last boyfriend?" "From what she's said to me, it's been several years. She dates here and there, of course, but not a lot. Since she started working at the D.A.'s office, she's been too busy to go out and meet men, and she refuses to see guys from work." "She has someone over there right now," he said before he could catch himself. "How do you know?" "I called her to make sure she was feeling better after last night," he lied. "That was nice of you," Gabrielle said. "But I went by this morning. I think she's fine." "That's good." There was an uncomfortable silence. "I thought you weren't interested in her," Gabrielle said at last. "I'm not," David replied and said a quick goodbye so he could hang up. He wasn't interested in Lindy, he told himself, but something about the possibility of Lindy seeing someone else bothered him. He paced around the house for several minutes, toting Allie, who wasn't too happy that she couldn't engage his full attention today. Then he drove over to Lindy's. Lindy might not think they had anything to work out, but David felt strongly the other way. Only, for some strange reason, once he stood at her door and raised his hand to knock, he couldn't remember all the things he'd planned to discuss. He could only remember the taste of her kiss.
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CHAPTER TWELVE "This is getting to be a habit," Lindy said, peeking through a narrow crack in her door. "I brought Allie this time." David gave her his most winning smile and shoved his daughter a little closer. Lindy adored Allie. She wouldn't refuse to let her in. "I can see that," she said. "Hi, punkin." Allie squealed and reached for her. "Just a second." The door clicked shut and there was some shuffling behind it. When it opened again, Lindy had a firm hold on the collar of the oldest, saddest-looking basset hound David had ever seen. "Where did you get that?" He glanced past her, trying to see if there was anyone else in the house, but it all looked pretty empty to him. "At the pound today," Lindy replied. Allie obviously appreciated the dog more than he did. She immediately struggled to get down so she could reach it. "You couldn't have rescued a better dog?" he asked. "This one's on its last legs." She bit her lip and gazed down at the decrepit animal. "You don't know that," she said, her tone slightly indignant. "He's fine. And he has sad eyes." David squatted next to Allie, who was hugging the dog fiercely. "All basset hounds have sad eyes." She scowled at him. "I'm sure you didn't come over here just to insult my dog." "No, I think we have a lot more important things to —" A knock at the door interrupted. "— discuss," he finished. "Are you expecting someone?" "It's Gabrielle. I called her to come over and see my dog." The way his luck was running lately, of course it was Gabrielle. David took hold of the dog's collar, so he wouldn't escape when Lindy opened the door, and resisted the urge to duck out the back to avoid Gabby's unwanted questions. It was too late for that. He was sure she'd already seen his truck outside. "Nice dog," Gabrielle said the moment Lindy let her in. David was pretty sure she was lying about the dog, but he didn't have much of a chance to call her on it because she turned to him next. "David, what are you doing here?" David noted the smug smile on her face and knew she thought her matchmaking efforts were finally bearing fruit. He struggled to come up with a reason for his presence that would convince her to the contrary, but he was out of excuses for contacting Lindy. "I just stopped by to —" He glanced at Lindy, looking for a little help. She sighed and shook her head. "Now that you're here, Gabby, you might as well sit down. We have something we need to tell you." "No, we don't," David said.
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Lindy frowned at him. "Yes, we do. There's no need keeping it a secret now. The truth's going to come out eventually." "It can wait," he said. "Stalling won't make it any easier," Lindy countered. "Tell me," Gabrielle prompted, her smile widening in expectation. "I want to know." "Remember when you set us up on that date?" Lindy asked. Gabrielle nodded, and Lindy gave David a look that said Here goes. "Well, we —" "— had a wonderful time and have decided to start seeing each other," David finished. He put his arm around Lindy, pulling her close, and she looked up at him as though he'd just grown two heads. "As a matter of fact, we're going to dinner tonight, right, Lindy?" Lindy looked too shocked to answer. Fortunately, Gabrielle filled the gap. "You know I've wanted you two to get together for a long time," she said, her eyebrows gathering in confusion. "Why would that be any kind of a secret?" "We just didn't want to tell you in case...in case it doesn't work out," he said. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Lindy shut the door behind Gabrielle, propped her hands on her hips and turned to confront David. "What the heck was that all about?" David rubbed the stubble on his chin as he shook his head. "I don't know." "Now she thinks we're dating!" "What's wrong with that?" he asked. "Maybe we should date, be seen together, pretend to fall in love." Lindy couldn't believe her ears. "Pretend? What's that going to accomplish?" "If the people we know believe we're a couple, at least for a little while, news of the baby will come as much less of a shock." Lindy was already having a hard time dealing with the many facets of the situation — the embarrassment of being fool enough to get herself pregnant in this way, the sting of his rejection, the mental and physical preparations necessary to be ready for a baby. She saw no need to complicate matters. "That might be true," she said, "but I don't think it's a good idea." "Why not? Surely you're dreading breaking the news to all the people in your life. What about your mother, your stepfather, your younger brother? What about the people at your work? They're conservative, law-andorder types. How are they going to understand you having a baby when you haven't even had a boyfriend?" "Maybe I have had a boyfriend." He cocked an eyebrow that said he knew better. "What would it hurt to prepare everyone, so the news goes over as smoothly as possible?" he asked. "Gabrielle, at the very least, will be much more understanding if we go this other route. And because of this baby's relationship to Allie, and the fact that Gabby's your sister, she definitely has a stake in this."
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Gabrielle again. He'd never get over her. What made it even worse was the fact that Lindy couldn't blame him. She knew her sister was special. "It wouldn't be as easy as it sounds," she said with a dismissive gesture she hoped would put an end to the discussion. But David wasn't ready to let it drop. "Why not?" Because we'd have to be around each other a lot. Because we'd have to smile and stand close and use all that other body language so characteristic of lovers… "No one pretends to have a relationship," she said. David rescued Allie from the dog, because he'd knocked her down and was busy licking her face. "You never know," he said. CHAPTER FOURTEEN In order to create the appearance of a relationship, they needed to spend some time together. David had tried to talk Lindy into going out to dinner, but she'd said there wasn't any need. Unless they were going to invite Gabrielle and Tucker to join them, chances were good no one they knew would be around to see them together. And Lindy definitely wasn't ready to test her acting ability on Gabrielle. Besides, they had Allie, who didn't particularly enjoy being locked in a highchair for as long as it took to eat at a restaurant, and Max, who hadn't yet settled in to his new home. But a pang of disappointment had surprised David when she refused. He'd really wanted to take her out, he realized. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for any woman so excited about adopting the canine equivalent of Oscar Madison. He cast a skeptical eye at her dog, which was lying on the floor with its muzzle resting on its paws, snoring. He'd never heard a dog snore before. Too bad she'd visited the pound before he became her pretend boyfriend. He could have gone with her and helped her pick out a nice golden retriever, or maybe an Irish setter.... "Why are you looking at my dog that way?" she asked defensively. He lowered the volume on the movie they'd rented. Once they'd returned from the video store and he'd put Allie to bed in Lindy's bedroom, he'd settled himself on her black leather couch. She'd curled up in the beanbag chair on the opposite side of the room, wearing a pair jeans and a T-shirt that was just tight enough to be distracting. "I was wondering if you'd been planning to get a dog for some time, or if you were acting on impulse." "Why?" she said. "Because this is a definitely an impulse dog." "This is not an impulse dog," she argued. "This was a calculated decision to add another dimension to my life and get me ready for the responsibility of caring for a baby." Her answer definitely made her sound like the attorney she was. He fought the urge to smile and overcame it easily enough when he remembered all the times he'd gotten up in the night with Allie when she needed to be fed or when she was sick with a cold. Those memories evoked the same sense of loss he experienced whenever he thought of all the holidays and birthdays and weekday activities he was going to miss when it was Gabrielle and Tucker's turn to have his daughter. He hadn't wanted the divorce. He'd loved Gabrielle, enjoyed being a husband to her and a father to Allie. Now he was packing bags and driving his baby back and forth every other eekend, and would soon be doing the same with another child.
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It wasn't a pleasant prospect. But he couldn't see any alternative.... "Now what?" she said, interrupting his thoughts. David blinked. "Nothing." "You had an unhappy expression on your face. And don't tell me it had anything to do with my dog." "It didn't. I was thinking about the baby." "Allie? Or our baby?" Our baby? Her words sounded so foreign to his ears that he wondered if he'd ever get used to the idea of having a baby with Gabrielle's sister. "This baby," he replied because he couldn't quite call it "our" baby yet. "What about this baby?" Her voice sounded tentative, as though she was afraid to hear where he was going with this conversation, and he couldn't blame her. These situations very often turned negative. "What kind of visitation do you think would be fair?" he asked. "I don't know," she responded. "You've never said what you expect." "I want at least the same amount of involvement I have with Allie." "At least?" "Alternate weekends and holidays aren't much." "But it's not practical to —" A knock at the door caused Lindy's words to fall off, and she jumped to her feet. "What do you want to bet that's Gabrielle?" "She'll be looking to hear how things went between us tonight." Sure enough, a second later Gabrielle's voice came through the door. "Lindy? It's me and Randall." Lindy's new dog managed to lift his head and bark — once — as Lindy shot David a worried look. "This was your idea. What do we do now?" "Fake it," he said. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Fake it. Lindy wiped her palms on her jeans and took a deep breath before opening the door. She wasn't a good actress. She generally wore her emotions on her sleeve. But now that she and David had decided to create the illusion of a budding romance, she wasn't going to be the one to give them away. He'd done too good a job convincing her of the merit of his plan. "Hi Gabby, Randall," she said. "How was dinner?" Gabrielle asked, her voice low and meaningful.
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Lindy purposefully avoided the intimacy Gabrielle's tone invited. "Dinner was good, wasn't it, David?" she said, drawing him immediately into the conversation. David came to stand behind her. "Excellent." "Where'd you go?" Tucker asked. Lindy waited for David to answer because they hadn't gone anywhere. They'd had pizza delivered. "P.F. Chang's," he said, placing his hands on Lindy's shoulders and massaging her in a subtle yet possessive manner. Gabrielle's eyes flicked from his hands to Lindy's face. She smiled broadly, and Lindy resisted the urge to pull away. "We're sorry for barging in on you like this," Gabrielle said. "But Randall's mother called this afternoon and asked if she could have the kids in the morning. So when we saw that David's Pathfinder was still out front, we thought maybe we could pick up Allie." It was an excuse if ever Lindy had heard one, but she didn't say anything. David had slipped his arms around her middle and pulled her back against him, and she was too busy trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. "That's fine," David said. "I appreciate you letting me have her today even though it wasn't my weekend." Lindy could feel her face heating with a strange combination of embarrassment and humiliation — because David was doing everything she wanted him to do but for all the wrong reasons — and was grateful the room was lit only by the television. "Where's Landon?" she asked, hoping to provide a distraction. "He's staying the night with a friend," Randall replied. His blue eyes flicked from her to David, and Lindy fleetingly wondered if her sister's enigmatic husband could see right through them. "I'll get Allie," he said. "There's no hurry for you to leave," Lindy said. "David was just on his way out. Right, David?" David stiffened behind her, and she knew she'd surprised him. But at the moment she needed some space to reestablish her emotional equilibrium. "Yeah, I gotta go," he said. "It's getting late." Then it was his turn to surprise her. Lifting her chin, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said and walked out. Lindy didn't respond. Her knees felt weak, and she couldn't find her voice. "Oh my gosh!" Gabrielle exclaimed once the door closed behind him. "He likes you. He really likes you. How do you feel about him? What do you think?" Lindy raised a hand to her lips. What did she think? That she'd made a terrible mistake agreeing to go along with David's crazy plan. She couldn't pretend to fall in love with him because, for her, it felt all too real. CHAPTER SIXTEEN David didn't call Lindy for several days because the way he'd felt when he kissed her last Saturday had been more than a little unsettling. He'd just been pretending; he knew that. But pretending didn't explain why he'd wanted to stay or why he'd longed to return to her place ever since.
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He'd thought time would give him some perspective, but four days without contact hadn't changed anything. At odd moments, he'd picture Lindy sitting in her beanbag chair, wearing that T-shirt he found so appealing on her. Or he'd remember the softness of her lips. That he could even kiss Lindy in front of Gabrielle, and actually feel desire, indicated something monumental, didn't it? Or was he simply reacting to the shocking news of the baby, hoping for something to exist between him and Lindy that wasn't there at all? He couldn't say for sure. He only knew he couldn't go any longer without talking to her. He wanted to hear the sound of her voice. He tried her at home, even though it was mid afternoon. Then he called information for the District Attorney's office. He didn't want to contact Gabrielle to get Lindy's number. He'd spoken to Gabby once since Saturday, and even though they were typically quite comfortable with each other, the conversation had been stilted. Probably it was all the lies and the pretense — and the huge secret he was harboring. All of that certainly didn't make for free-flowing conversation. And Gabrielle invariably tried to convince him that he'd like Tucker, if only he'd give him a chance. David was tired of hearing it. "District Attorney's office," a man's voice said almost as soon as David dialed the number. "Lindy Sims, please." "Just a moment." David waited, drumming his fingers on his desk. When Lindy picked up, he realized he was actually a little nervous. "It's me," he said. "How are you?" "Fine," she responded. "You?" "Good." She sounded distant, remote. He cleared his throat, suddenly at a loss for where to take the conversation, so he came right to the point. "You busy Friday night?" She hesitated, and he felt a rejection coming, so he rushed on, hoping to convince her. "I thought it might be nice to catch a movie, maybe grab some dinner. There's a nice steak place that just opened up by the mall." "Are Gabrielle and Tucker going or something?" she asked, her confusion obvious. David considered telling her they were. He knew he could always call Gabrielle and set up a double date, if that was what it would take to get Lindy to go out with him. But oddly enough he didn't want Gabrielle along. He wanted to be alone with Lindy. "No." "Then why go?" she asked. "We've been over this before. There won't be anyone around to convince." "Maybe I need to convince myself of a few things." "Like what?" "That what I'm feeling is real," he admitted. The pause that followed this statement was significant. "David, I — I appreciate the effort. But I'm busy all weekend," she said and hung up.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Lindy stared at the phone on her desk long after she'd hung up with David, telling herself she'd done the right thing. She planned to play along with his little charade for a few weeks, because he was right about the appearance of a relationship making it easier to break the news about the baby. But she wasn't about to take any more of an emotional risk than a few strategically planned comments and outings. Why make the same mistake twice? David was still in love with Gabrielle. Lindy knew she'd be foolish to think, just because she was pregnant with his baby, that he'd be able to forget Gabrielle. Maybe if he wasn't so involved in his ex-wife's life he'd have a chance of getting over her. But he was involved. He had a baby with Gabrielle; they were good friends. But, if she'd done the right thing, why did she feel so lousy about it? Closing her eyes, she dropped her head in one hand, struggling with the desire to call him back. For once she was going to go with her head, she decided. Her heart would only lead her astray. Look at the mess it had gotten her into already. *** David went through the rest of the day replaying his telephone conversation with Lindy. He knew she thought his sudden interest stemmed only from the baby. He'd tried to convince himself of that, too, right after she turned him down. But it wasn't true. What he was feeling was far more basic than that. He simply wanted to be with her, see her face light up in a smile. Hell, he even wanted to see that silly dog of hers. Give it up. He'd asked her out, and she'd refused. What more could he do? He attempted to focus his attention on a Seinfeld rerun, but it was no use. The more he argued with himself, the more he wanted to call her again. A glance at the clock told him it was after eleven. Definitely too late to call. But he could drive by and see if any lights were on…. *** The house was dark. "Damn," David muttered as he sat in front of Lindy's house, letting the engine of his truck idle. He told himself to head home and forget about Lindy, at least until morning. But somehow it seemed important that he be exactly where he was. After several minutes of indecision, he shifted into Park, cut the engine and headed up the walk. He had something he wanted to say — and it couldn't wait. *** Lindy took several moments to answer the door. When she did, David could tell that she'd definitely been sleeping. Her hair was mussed and her eyes were sleepy, but she looked incredibly sexy. He remembered her, soft and warm beneath him the night they made love, and his body hardened almost instantly. "What is it?" she asked, blinking up at him. He drew a deep breath to slow the sudden pounding of his heart. "I..." His gaze lowered to her lips. "I'm not in love with Gabrielle," he said, then he pulled her to him and kissed her the way he'd been wanting to kiss
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her since last Saturday. Not a light peck — a deep, searching kiss intended to let her know, beyond any doubt, that he was here because he wanted to be. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Lindy felt herself melt in David's arms. She'd told herself she was going to use her head in the future and protect herself from making another mistake. But he was slipping his hands up the back of her shirt, and she couldn't think of anything except the feel of his fingers caressing her skin while he kissed her hungrily. "David, stop," she finally said, trying to pull away. He lifted his head long enough to look down at her, but still held her securely in his arms. "What is it?" "We need to take things slower this time," she said. "We barely know each other." "Actually, I've been thinking about that." "And?" she said, feeling warm and liquid inside in spite of everything. "I realize now that I know you better than I thought." "How?" she breathed, automatically arching into him as he started trailing kisses down her neck. "I know your family." He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. "I know you're an attorney." He circled the rim of her ear with the tip of his tongue, and she couldn't help the shudder that went through her. "I know you're a good person but a lousy actress." He cupped her bottom and pressed her into him. "And I'm positive I want to make love to you again." That part was becoming pretty apparent. But there were warning bells going off in Lindy's head. This was what she was supposed to avoid, right? This was what had caused all the trouble in the first place. His hand began to move around front, and she stopped him before he could reach her breasts. "You don't like my dog," she said, voicing the only objection she could think of in the heat of the moment. He chuckled against her mouth as he kissed her again. "Actually, I love Max," he said. "Max means you have a soft heart. See? I know that, too." He liked Max. How could she hold up against that? Finally realizing that they were still standing at the front door, she took his hand and pulled him inside. Some mistakes were just meant to be. CHAPTER NINETEEN David woke up feeling more content than he'd felt in ages. Lindy was sleeping on her side, turned away from him, but he scooped her closer. When he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder a few minutes later, she stirred and rolled over to face him, and he couldn't help smiling at how appealing he found her, even in complete dishabille. At first, she just blinked up at him with those wide blue eyes and said nothing. But he knew something was coming when she began to worry her bottom lip. "We probably shouldn't have let that happen again," she said. "We keep doing things backward."
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He grinned and leaned up on one elbow to trace a finger between her breasts and down her belly. She caught his hand when he reached her navel, insuring that he could go no lower. "Don't confuse me," she said. "We need to talk." "About what?" "About Gabrielle. About this baby." "What about Gabrielle?" "You've been in love with her for years." The sudden freedom he'd felt last night when he'd told Lindy that he wasn't in love with Gabby anymore had confirmed that it was true. Now he believed he'd hung on to Gabby for so long, even after she'd moved on, because of Allie. Having another baby on the way forced him to look beyond what once was to what might be, and it was a very hopeful picture. "I'm over her," he said. "And the baby?" "I'm excited about the baby." "Oh." She seemed surprised that there wasn't more to say, but David felt as though things had suddenly become very simple. "Now I have something I want to discuss," he said. She raised her brows. "What's that?" "It's about the ad." "What ad?" "The one you're planning to run when you get the bathroom finished." "For a roommate?" "That's the one." She caught on and began to smile. "I suppose you know just the person." He rolled her beneath him and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. "I do," he murmured against her warm skin. "But you already have a house," she pointed out. "I'll sell it." She put her hands on his chest. "But what if...what if it doesn't work out between us?" "I can't make any promises about the future, Lindy. It's too soon for that. But I do know it'll never work if we don't give it a chance," he said. Then he kissed her. And this time she put her arms around his neck and clung to him while he made love to her — and he understood what it was about her that had made him forget reason the first time.
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CHAPTER TWENTY Seven months later "I can't believe you had to bring that dog," Gabrielle said, frowning at Max as Gabrielle, Lindy, David and Tucker sat around the pool after Allie's birthday party. "Don't look at me," Lindy replied. "It's David. He's crazy about that dog." She got up because Landon was calling to her, wanting to show her some new trick he could do in the pool. "He doesn't like us to leave him for long periods of time," David said, feeling a little defensive. "A few hours is hardly a long period of time," Gabrielle pointed out. But her expression quickly changed when she saw David's eyes follow Lindy over to the pool. "What are you staring at?" she asked, nudging him with a knowing grin. David felt his defensiveness slip away. Lindy was now nearly nine months pregnant and more beautiful to him than ever. "My wife," he said. Gabrielle reached over and squeezed his hand. "I'm so glad the two of you are happy." He was happy, happier than he'd ever thought he could be. He'd loved Gabrielle — he still did, in many ways — but she'd been so unsettled when she was married to him. Lindy was just the opposite. She was committed and content and as excited about the baby as he was. "I can't believe we're having a boy," he said, glancing over at Allie, who was busy eating a second piece of birthday cake. "It's going to be fun to have one of each." "Maybe we'll have a boy, too," Tucker said, leaning back and crossing his feet at the ankles. David raised his eyebrows and split his gaze between them. "Are you two thinking about having a baby?" Tucker grinned, and David thought it had to be the first time he'd ever seen Gabrielle's husband smile like an eager little boy. "What's going on?" Lindy asked, curiosity lighting her eyes as she came back around the pool. "I think the Tuckers have something they want to tell us," David said. "I'm pregnant," Gabrielle announced. "I found out just last week. "That's wonderful!" Lindy said, giving David's arm an affectionate squeeze as she sat down next to him. David leaned back and studied the harsh lines of Tucker's face. He'd never really forgiven him for being the man who could win the whole of Gabrielle's heart, he realized. But the past few months had changed everything. He now knew that what had happened before was for the best. And he was grateful that Tucker was a good husband to Gabrielle and a good stepfather to Allie. Reaching over, he offered him his hand. "Congratulations, Randall," he said. And the best part of all was that he meant it.
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SUGAR AND SPICE by Lynette Kent Dr. Ian Baker is a man dedicated to his work and his patients. He recently moved to New Skye, North Carolina, because he knew he was needed in the small town. But with Thanksgiving fast approaching, and his family scheduled to arrive for a holiday visit, he realizes he needs a life outside the hospital — if only to convince his relatives that leaving Atlanta was not a huge mistake. That's where Cassandra Stuart comes in. Cass is used to running things. She runs her own successful catering business in the day, but her takecharge attitude could be the reason she still spends her nights alone. What she needs is a man who needs her. And Dr. Baker definitely needs her — to make Thanksgiving dinner and turn his house into a home before his family arrives. Will he realize what's really missing in his life is Cass?
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE Ian Baker heaved a sigh of relief as the garage door closed behind him. He'd written today's date a hundred times during the past fifteen hours, yet hadn't realized the significance until he drove home from work to find the streets of his neighborhood crowded with Hobbits, Star Wars storm troopers, and Powerpuff girls, firefighters and Special Forces soldiers. Halloween, of course. His newly adopted community?? New Skye, North Carolina?? appeared to celebrate the holiday with great enthusiasm. The front doorbell rang as he came into the kitchen, then rang again. Ian jogged to the entry hall, fished his keys out of his pocket, and turned the big brass lock. On the porch, upward of ten little goblins stared hopefully at him. "Trick or treat!" A contingent of adults stood on his front lawn, just outside the circle of light. Ian wiped his hand over his face. "Uh?I?" He didn't have any candy in the house. No apples or oranges. Handfuls of cereal wouldn't cut it. What the heck could he give these kids? He held up a hand. "Wait just a second." Back in the kitchen, he surveyed his pantry. A box of Grape Nuts, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter. There was jam in the fridge, but he doubted PBJs would go over well. The light shining in the laundry room caught his eye. He'd left it on this morning when he was searching for matching socks in the dryer. And on top of the dryer? That's it! At the front door again, he crouched to kid level and held out the gallon pickle jar in which he saved the change from his pockets. "One fistful apiece, okay?" "All right!" They lined up efficiently to take their turns at the jar. "Thanks, mister." "This is cool!" "Awesome!" His impromptu treat appeared to do the trick. Wincing at his own stupid pun, Ian straightened to watch the kids flee across the grass to his neighbor's porch, followed by their adult bodyguards. Then he turned to go inside to prepare his nightly gourmet dinner?? a couple of PBJs and a glass of milk. What the menu lacked in variety, it made up in predictability.
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"Dr. Baker?" Hearing a woman's voice, he swung back around, automatically offering the jar. "Did I miss somebody?" She stepped out of the darkness and onto the porch. "Not at all. And I'm betting the handout at Dr. Baker's house will be the talk of New Skye Elementary School tomorrow morning. But you and I have an appointment." Her smile was wide and bright as she offered a handshake. "Cass Stuart. Sugar and Spice, Incorporated." Ian stared at her, his mind a total blank. "I'm sorry, it's been a really long day." Belatedly, he closed his palm against her warm one. "Come on in, please." He led her through the dark family room to the adjoining kitchen, where there was light, a table, and chairs. "Have a seat." Setting the pickle jar on the table, he crossed his arms and leaned his hips back against the counter to take some of the weight off his tired feet. "Now, Ms. Stuart, I hate to admit it, but I don't have a clue as to why you're here. What are we meeting about?" "Food." "Food." Ian scoured his brain. "Dinner?" Yes, he worked hard. Some nights he got home so tired he could hardly spell his own name correctly. But surely he would remember having asked this very attractive woman for a date. She nodded, her big brown eyes sparkling with laughter. "Thanksgiving dinner." "Thanksgiv??" He snapped his fingers as the pieces clicked into place. "Right. I remember?? I asked my office manager to find somebody to make dinner for my family." "And she called me. Sugar and Spice is a catering firm." She definitely fit the description, with her shiny, cinnamon brown hair, cinnamon sugar freckles sprinkled over her creamy skin, and those deep chocolate brown eyes. "I'm here to discuss the menu with you." She'd pulled her hair back from her face with an orange velvet band and wore black cats dangling from her earlobes. The touch of whimsy made him realize he hadn't thought about how much fun Halloween could be for?fifteen years? Twenty? "That's great." He heard his stomach growl and, from the quirk of Cass Stuart's full lips, knew she'd heard, too. "Would you mind if I made a sandwich? I haven't eaten since?" The memory escaped him and he shrugged. "Whenever." She opened her hands in a generous gesture. "Be my guest. But since I'm in the business of feeding people, I'd be glad to make a sandwich for you, if you'd like." He turned from the pantry with bread and peanut butter in his arms. "No, that's?" Then again, the idea of someone else making him a simple meal seemed close to heaven. "Will you join me? If you get the sandwiches, I could change clothes." "Sounds like a plan." She came to the counter as he set down the supplies. "I'll find what I need. Come back in ten minutes." "Right." Cass watched the gorgeous Dr. Baker disappear into the shadows beyond the kitchen. Rita, his new office manager and Cass's best friend since high school, had warned her. Now, she believed?? believed in the broad, rangy shoulders, the athletic build, the curly blond hair cut close to his beautifully shaped head. And the deep-set blue eyes, looking warily out on the world as if he hoped for friendship but didn't expect it.
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The house was nearly as magnificent as the man. As a kitchen aficionado, Cass definitely approved of the granite countertops and professional-grade appliances, although she wasn't sure the room had ever been used for meaningful cooking. A peek inside the spotless double ovens pretty much confirmed that guess. She put together four neat peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches, moved the pickle jar to the counter and set the glass-topped table with plates and two glasses of milk. Then, since Dr. Baker hadn't yet reappeared, she turned on the one lamp in the family room. Twice as large as the huge kitchen, this space offered a fireplace framed in black marble surrounded by exquisite paneling and built-in bookcases. Two long brown leather couches faced each other across the hearth, complemented by two tapestry armchairs and the lamp table between them. Otherwise, the room was empty. No curtains or drapes, no pictures on the walls, no rugs on the floor. Not a single accessory, not even a poker with which to stir a fire, should one ever be lit in that pristine space. Altogether, Dr. Baker's house looked like a cold, heartless place. Cass was still standing in the center of the room when Dr. Baker returned. He stopped short by the fireplace wall. "Something wrong?" "Not at all. Let's eat." They sat at the table and spent a couple of silent moments inhaling their food. Finally, Cass sighed. "This is good. I haven't had a bite since dawn." He raised a straight blond eyebrow. "A caterer doesn't get to eat?" "Too busy cooking." She reached into her purse for her notebook. "Now, do you have an idea of what kind of food you'd like for Thanksgiving dinner?" "Just the usual?? turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, vegetables, pies. Cranberry sauce. My mother likes cranberry sauce." Making notes, she shook her head. "You don't really need a caterer for this. Every grocery store will have all these dishes prepared and available the day before." "Yeah, I know." He put a hand on the back of his neck and rolled his head, obviously trying to loosen kinks. "But, see, this is a big deal. I just moved to New Skye to start my CT surgery practice." "CT?" "Cardiothoracic?? heart surgery. Coronary artery bypasses, that kind of work. Anyway, my whole family wants to drive over from Atlanta and celebrate the holiday. They weren't happy about my coming here, so my plan is to demonstrate that I'm doing fine and they don't need to worry anymore. I'd like everything to be really special, including the food. That's where you come in." "I understand." Cass added a couple of notes to her list. "But I have to tell you, Dr. Baker??" "Ian." He finished the last of his milk and looked at her with an endearing white mustache above his firm?? and very kissable?? mouth. "Call me Ian." Cass repressed her smile. "I have to tell you, Ian, that your grand plan doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of working out." CHAPTER TWO "'A snowball's chance in hell'? What are you talking about?" Frowning, Ian wiped away his milk moustache with the paper towel Cass had provided as a napkin. "What's wrong with my plan?"
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She braced her elbows on the table and shrugged, trying to keep her attention on the subject at hand, rather than on that well-shaped mouth. "You can hire me or any other caterer in town to prepare a terrific Thanksgiving dinner. But you don't have a place for your family to stay." "Of course, I do?? five thousand square feet of house, including four bedrooms, besides mine, and six extra baths. What more do I need?" He'd changed out of his surgical scrubs into a dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt over soft, comfortable jeans, and socks, but no shoes. Something about the white socks, and those strong shoulders under blue cotton, made thinking a challenge. Cass pushed back from the table and walked into the family room. With a safe distance between them, she turned to face him, holding out her arms. "Does this look like a home to you? Does this resemble the house where you grew up?" Ian glanced around, his brows drawn together in concentration."Well, my mother has more furniture. And lots of?of stuff." "Don't you think she'll expect something like that here?" He shook his head. "Nope. No way. I had to do the dusting when I was a kid. Spent my Saturday mornings wiping off little china dogs and monkeys and fancy boxes and painted plates on tiny stands when I wanted to be out playing ball. I'm not having that clutter in my house." Given such a pitiful portrait, Cass held up her hands in surrender. "But there's middle ground between bare and unbearable. Your family?? which means who, by the way?" "Mother, Dad, sister and husband, brother and wife and two kids." She widened her eyes. "That's a boatload of family, all right. And they won't be comfortable if you don't offer more than just the essentials in furniture. You need chairs, tables, lamps, a television for the kids?." "You sound as if I've got time to do that kind of shopping." He rolled his shoulders, then rubbed the back of his neck again. "I was in surgery at six this morning. Even if I knew what to look for, I can't possibly make time for wandering around town to find it." "How long have you lived in this house?" Cass clenched her fists against the urge to massage his neck and shoulders, get out those kinks that were driving him crazy. "Six months." "And all you've done is work?" "That's why I'm here. CT surgeons are plentiful in Atlanta. There was only one overworked guy in New Skye. I came where the patients needed me." "So now there are two overworked guys." Cass smiled and stepped close enough to put her hand on his arm. "I'll be glad to prepare a dinner your family can enjoy together. But I really do think you need to soften the house if they're going to be comfortable. And, more important, if they're going to believe you are." After a silent minute, he nodded decisively. "Okay. You do it." To Ian's immense regret, Cass stepped back again, dropping her hand from his arm. "I beg your pardon?" He persevered. "I'll pay you whatever you ask to make the place look like it should." Those deep brown eyes had gone round with surprise. "I'm not a decorator."
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"I don't want a decorator." This was the right plan. And the right woman to carry it out. He wasn't sure how he knew that. But he did. "I want somebody who understands my aversion to clutter and somebody who understands what needs to be here so my family will stop bugging me about coming back to Atlanta." Her gaze focused, intensified. "You don't want to go back?" "I went to college at Georgia Tech and med school at Emory, in Atlanta. Did my training there, as well, but I never knew how tied down I was until I finally came up for air and realized I'd never left home." He shook his head. "I was thirty-three and still a little kid. I decided it was time to grow up." Cass gazed up at him, and he didn't look away, didn't try to avoid the frank interest in her face. He'd never said any of that to a woman. Somehow, though, he knew he could trust Cass Stuart with his confession. She took a deep breath. "Well, then, I'll see what I can do about the house. Is there a color you especially hate?" He thought for a second. "Pink. In any form." "Your mother likes pink?" "Loves it." She laughed, and he loved the sound of it in his house. "No pink. Do you want to show me what I'm up against?" "Right this way." He led her upstairs and turned on the lights in the guest bedrooms. Each room had a bed, an armchair, and a chest of drawers or a dresser and mirror. The armchairs were identical, upholstered in a green damask he'd seen on a sample at the furniture store, and the four beige bedspreads were all the same, because he'd liked the heavy cotton fabric. Off-white blinds hung at the windows, matching the offwhite paint on the walls. The off-white baths were supplied with green towels. Cass stood in the last room and shook her head. "Dr. Baker, you are seriously color-challenged." He considered that he'd done pretty well. "I had one free day before I started work. This was all I could manage." "Now we've got four weeks. Place yourself in my capable hands and I guarantee the results will be breathtaking." Ian couldn't help the interpretation his mind chose to put on those words. "Sounds good. I'm game." The woman across the room looked puzzled, and then horrified. "That's not what I meant!" "Unfortunately, I know that." He grinned and turned the light off to give her time to recover. Starting down the stairs, he glanced up as she came to the top step. "Do you want to have your way in my bedroom, too?" After a second's pause, Cass chuckled. "Of course," she said, in a voice suddenly gone deep and sexy. "What woman wouldn't?" A kitten was waiting on her doorstep when she got home from Ian's house?? tiny, shivering, all big green eyes and orange stripes. Cass picked the little thing up and warmed it in her arms. "What are you doing here? Where did you come from?" The baby mewed pitifully. "Is somebody missing you?" Inside her apartment, she wrapped a towel around her houseguest and went to the kitchen for a bowl of milk.
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"Pretty stripes." Cass sat on the floor nearby as the cat lapped up the last of her half-and-half. "Like ginger and cream. But I know naming you means you're staying?." She resisted the urge for all of a minute. "I think I'll call you Ginger. I'll be good, though, I promise. I'll put up signs, in case they're looking for you." Ginger crawled into her lap, made herself comfortable in the folds of Cass's sweater, and began to clean her paws. "I don't think they were taking very good care of you." When she stroked a finger along those stripes, the ribs underneath were all too obvious. "I'll have to check them out before I let you go back. "Meantime," she said, settling her shoulders against the oven with Ginger dozing in her arms, "we have to get your shots. The right food. And a litter box. You need to be well trained, as soon as possible. "Because, Ginger, my dear, there's this doctor I know?? a really great guy?? who needs just the kind of care you and I have to give." CHAPTER THREE On Monday, Cass got her early morning cooking done, then went to Ian's house and let herself in with the key he had given her. She walked through the rooms alone and tried to imagine coming home every night to such emptiness. How could the man survive like this? That was the problem, she decided. He survived, and that was all. He had no ties outside the hospital, nothing and no one to draw him away from his work. Ian had isolated himself with his studies and his training until his life withered around him. Even his reason for moving to New Skye had to do with the patients who needed him. But Cass believed that, somewhere deep inside, he'd known he had to find a place to do more than just exist. A place to live. And her job?? her calling?? was to show him how. Why she should believe that, after only one meeting, she couldn't say. Love at first sight had never been part of her agenda. Destiny was not a concept with which she felt comfortable. Life was work in progress, and she intended to make her work worthwhile. And to share it with Dr. Ian Baker, for as long as they both should live. In the following days, every moment she could squeeze from her cooking schedule she spent prowling fabric shops and furniture stores, searching for the right touches that would make Ian's house a home. She read Consumer Reports in bed at night to choose the best television and sound system. She renewed her close acquaintance with the man at the paint-and-wallpaper outlet. Her own small apartment accumulated the fruits of her searches?? pillows and candlesticks and pottery, fabric samples and paint chips and wallpaper books. Kate Bowdrey, a longtime friend and expert on d?r, spent several evenings sitting on Cass's living room floor, helping her choose patterns and colors and playing with Ginger. "I can't go too bold," Cass warned. "He wants a very quiet, soothing house. After a day at the hospital, I expect he needs peace." "I'm sure." Kate compared two shades of gold at the same time she dangled a feather toy in front of the kitten. "When do I get to meet this paragon?" "Did I say he was a paragon?" She hadn't realized she'd revealed quite so much. Kate smiled. "You said he was gorgeous, dedicated, intelligent, and?oh, yes, gorgeous. Sounds like a paragon to me."
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"No, that's the way you talk about Dixon." Kate was waiting for her divorce to become final so she and Dixon Bell, another high school classmate, could become engaged. She had already asked Cass to cater the wedding, but the arrangement was a secret between the two of them. "Oh, all right. You're just passionately involved in creating a comfortable home for this man in whom you have no personal interest. Who wouldn't understand something so?illogical?" But, of course, Cass did have a personal interest. And every time she ran into him, that interest deepened. Just last night, she'd come over late, after work, to measure the upstairs windows. And Ian had come up to see why his guest room lights had been left on. "The Decorating Fairy, I presume." He stood at the foot of her ladder. "I'm reminded of the Shoemaker and the Elves. They finished his work for him every night and made him rich." Cass grinned. "That's right, and at the end his wife sewed them clothes and he cobbled them each a cute little pair of boots." "So, should I write you a coupon for a free bypass? That's my only skill, I'm afraid." She turned sideways, leaned an elbow on the top of the ladder and propped her chin in her hand. "Somehow, I doubt that." He stepped onto the bottom rung, aligning their bodies and bringing their faces very close together. "You doubt what?" "That surgery is your only skill." Maybe it was their seductive position?? or, more likely, the fantasies she'd been having about him as she lay alone in her bed at night?? but Cass was feeling bold. "You'd have to be good with your hands to be a successful surgeon. So I'm sure?" At the glint in his eyes, her courage failed her. "You're sure??" "I'm sure you'd be quite dexterous with?with knots and c-carpentry?all sorts of?? of manual tasks." Ian stared at her for a long moment, his gaze intent, wondering. And then he dropped lightly back to the floor. "That's what you mean, hmm?" She tried to recover her breath. "What else?" "I'm wondering," he said, then winked at her and left the room. The second week of November was one of the hardest Ian had yet experienced in his new practice. Emergency bypass surgeries popped up every time he turned around, and the regular surgery schedule was booked solid. Follow-up visits and consultations with other doctors took time. Several nights he simply walked straight through the house from the garage to his bedroom and fell facedown on the bed, asleep before he hit the pillow. On Saturday, he got home early?? about seven p.m. - and stepped into a strange new world. The house smelled faintly of?cider, he decided. He tracked the scent to the dozen or more gold candles in brass holders of various heights now grouped on the mantel. A low, square table sat between the two leather sofas, with a bowl of green apples?? real apples, he discovered with approval?? on top. A soft, tapestry-patterned blanket had been draped over the back of one couch, while velvet pillows in gold and green lay against the arm of the other. The space provided in the bookcase now housed a new, state-of-theart television, and the remote control waited next to the bowl of apples. Firewood had been stacked neatly on the grate, ready for lighting.
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Ian found himself tempted to lie down, put his feet up and look for a ballgame on TV. But he was hungry. More important, he wanted to see what other changes Cass had brought to his house. A tour upstairs yielded?nothing. That seemed strange, when she'd been so appalled by the lack of color. His bedroom hadn't been touched, either. Or had it? He couldn't remember making the bed this morning?? he'd been called in at five a.m. for a trauma case. But now the sheets were smooth, the pillows plump. And did he imagine that hint of spiced peaches in the air? His stomach did the proverbial growling routine, and he decided he had to get sustenance or he would keel over. The refrigerator was his usual destination, so he went there first, wishing for something besides strawberry jelly. Grape would be a nice change. Maybe tomorrow he'd get to the grocery store. But the fridge yielded those surprises he hadn't found upstairs?? a foil container with a paper top marked "chicken and rice, heat in microwave four minutes on high." A big bowl of green salad. A whole apple pie and a pitcher of iced tea. Plus orange juice, fresh milk, bagels, butter, and cream cheese. Ian stood and stared for a long time. The pillows and blankets and candles?? part of their agreement, and he expected to see a bill. Food, though?what did food mean? Maybe Cass Stuart, caterer, couldn't stand to see anyone go hungry. Or maybe?? just maybe?? Cass Stuart, an attractive and generous woman, cared enough about Ian Baker to be sure he got fed on Saturday night. And if that was the case? What should be his next move? CHAPTER FOUR His next move turned out to be far easier than Ian had imagined. Maybe even predestined. He woke up Sunday morning to find chilly November rain pouring down outside the windows. For some reason, the idea of going to a worship service occurred to him. And the first person he saw, as he shut the church door on a wet gust of wind, was Cass Stuart. "Ian!" Her lovely face shone with pleasure as she came toward him. "Welcome to St. Peter's. Is this your first visit?" He shook the hand she extended, then discovered he was reluctant to release her. So he didn't. "I thought I should get back in the habit of showing up on Sundays." Impulsively, he added, "That was even before I knew you were here." She made no attempt to take her hand back. At his words, her gaze warmed like a goblet of fine liqueur held over a flame. "I'm glad you chose our church this morning. Let me find you a seat." Even as she turned away, her fingers clung to his for a few seconds. Ian missed her touch as soon as it was gone. CHAPTER FIVE Kissing Cass was like coming home?only better, because his empty house didn't welcome him the way she did, with an instant melting against him, the warmth of her palms holding his wrists, the spicy sweet taste of her lips moving, giving under his. He could have stood in the rain with her forever. Except that she was pulling away. He lifted his head to look at her and found her eyes closed, her smile dreamy. "Ian." He'd never heard his name sighed that way before, wanted to hear it over and over again.
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Then she opened her eyes. "I have to go. It's not heart surgery." She smiled, wistfully. "But people do count on me." A sudden clutch in his gut protested. But commitment was a characteristic he respected. And this was a woman he'd come to care about too much to dishonor. "I know." He stepped back, set her free. "Can I see you sometime this week? I don't know my schedule, but?" Like he ever had free time during the week for something as ordinary, as sociable, as a date. Cass smiled at him over her shoulder as she unlocked her car. "Oh, I imagine we'll run into each other. After all, this is a really small town." They next ran into each other on his staircase, as Ian was using his last ounce of energy climbing up and Cass was skipping down. He gazed up at her, sniffing the air. "Is that paint I smell?" She stopped, blocking his way. "Paint, it is. Top quality latex." Ian had liked the white walls. After a day of chaos at the hospital?? a day like this one where it seemed everything had gone wrong?? white was quiet. Soothing. He came to the step just below the one on which Cass stood, but when he edged to the right, so did she. "You didn't tell me you were going to paint." "You didn't ask." When Ian stepped to her left, she followed. Hands on his hips, he frowned. "What color?" "Which room?" "You're painting all the rooms different colors?" He swallowed hard. "And the bathrooms?" "Paper." Worse and worse. Visions of his mother's flower-covered walls assailed him. Again, he tried to move past her. Again, Cass blocked. "Please, let me by," he said through clenched jaws, barely remembering his manners. "I want to see what you're doing." "Why don't you wait until it's done and get the whole effect?" "Because it doesn't make sense to have you do something, pay for everything, and then have to do it over when I hate it. I'd rather stop this process as early as possible." "Whoa." The woman above him backed up a step. "What happened to trusting me?" He had said that. And meant it. But tonight, he just couldn't take the chance. "What happened to making things comfortable without any major changes?" he retorted. There was no doubt he'd roused her temper. She had her chin up in the air and her eyes were hard. "Your family will appreciate these changes." "My family will be here three nights. I live here all the time. If I'd wanted the walls all sorts of wild colors, I would have had them painted that way." Cass jammed her hands in the pockets of her overalls. "Excuse me, but that's not quite the impression you gave me of the way you finished this house." When Ian opened his mouth, she shook her head. "Never mind. Feel free to go up and make your judgment. If you hate it, tell the guys to paint over the color and charge the paint to me. I wouldn't stick you with a room you didn't like any more than I would a meal you
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couldn't eat. Good night." Brushing past him, she hurried down the stairs. The slam of the front door rattled the windows in every room. Ian ran his hands over his face and through his hair. Then, wearily, he climbed the rest of the way to the second floor to see what disaster awaited him there. The room at the top had two walls painted a soft green, lighter than the chair fabric he'd chosen, but in the same shade. With the woodwork left white, he had to admit the effect was cool, crisp. Pleasant. There were no flowers in the bathroom, just a pale green, marble-patterned paper with rolls of a Greek key border waiting to be installed. So it went. As he viewed each bedroom, Ian found a variation of paint against which his green chair looked?well, great. Soft gold, a light brown. The most unusual color was orange?? not a harsh or bright tone, just a moment pulled from a cozy blaze in the fireplace and expanded to glow on the walls. He felt warm and comfortable, standing there in the half-painted room. At the same time, he felt like an absolute jerk. A heel. An ungrateful, stupid, ill-natured boor. And there was nobody in the house to tell him he was wrong. Cass turned her answering machine off and refused to answer the first six calls that rang after she got home. She didn't want to talk to anyone on the entire planet, not even Russell Crowe. Didn't need any more work. Didn't want any more friends. Just expected to sit on the couch next to Ginger with a pint of H?en Dazs and eat until her teeth froze and her brain exploded. "When?" she asked the kitten. "When will I learn?" All her life, she'd been smart, fast, organized. And bossy. How many times had she heard that from teachers, from other girls? From boys? And when would she stop expecting to find a man who actually appreciated her talent for getting things done? Today might just be the day. Ian Baker had accomplished what no man had done before. He'd shut Cass Stuart up. A pint of H?en Dazs didn't last long enough for this kind of pain, and Cass realized she would have to go out for more. She set the carton on the floor for Ginger to clean and was dragging on her jacket, debating between French Vanilla and Bailey's Irish Cream, when the phone rang again. "'Lo?" Then she remembered, and swore. "Cass, it's Ian. Don't hang up." The words reached her even as she aimed the receiver at its hook. "Please, let me apologize." She brought the phone back to her ear long enough to say, "Don't bother." Then, for some reason, she didn't hang up, but stood there like a fool, one arm in her coat and one out. Waiting. "Listen, Cass, I was wrong. Totally, miserably wrong." He sounded breathless, frantic. "I looked at the rooms upstairs and the colors are great. Perfect. I wouldn't change one, and the bathroom papers are fantastic, too. I'm really sorry I acted like such a?a?" "Would you like me to supply the word?" "I'm sure you could. Let's just take it as already said." She heard the smile in his voice. "My only excuse is that I had a really bad day. A patient died during bypass surgery. Not my case but, still, it throws everybody." Immediately, she felt horrible. "Oh, Ian, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something?"
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"I didn't give myself a chance, did I? Instead, I jumped down your throat and made everything worse. But if you'll forgive me, that'll help." How could she refuse? "Of course. Do you want me to keep going? It's up to you." "Definitely." No doubt at all. "And I want to make up to you for being a jerk." Cass smiled, the ice cream forgotten. "How do you propose to do that?" "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" Ian now sounded his usual, in-control self. "Just meet me here at eight Friday night. I guarantee an evening you won't forget!" CHAPTER SIX Wearing a velvet dress and sexy heels, Cass arrived at eight p.m. on Friday to find Ian's house dark and apparently empty. She waited in her car for a few minutes, thinking he might be running late. Then she wondered if he expected her to let herself in with her key. He might even be planning to spring some kind of surprise when she did. No surprise. No Ian. Just the chill and the dark and the smell of fresh paint met her at the front door. She turned on the lights in the family room?? she'd placed two floor lamps and another table, with the right lamp to set on it, by the sofas. She sat in an armchair for a while, staring at the blank television. The apples smelled good, and Cass finally acknowledged how hungry she was. In the refrigerator, she found hints of Ian's plans, including chicken breasts, a bottle of white wine, fresh broccoli, and fresh pasta. The thought of what she could do with those ingredients made her mouth water and her stomach growl. But tonight she would not take charge. She would let Ian keep control. By nine-thirty, she was ready to weep with hunger. He hadn't called and she didn't know how to contact him, except through the answering service, which wouldn't give her any information except to say he wasn't on call tonight. Great. So where was he? At ten, she consigned his male ego and his desire for control to hell. First, she turned on the gas igniter in the fireplace and set the logs to blazing. Then, she pounded the chicken breasts thin, dredged them in flour, and set about making chicken Piccata with the lemons and capers she found in the fridge. Great minds think alike. Just as she was stirring the sauce, lights flashed outside and the garage door lifted. In another moment, Ian came into the house. He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, staring at Cass with an expression very close to despair. "Smells good," he said quietly. And then, "I am so sorry. I'd have called, but I was in surgery the whole time." Cass looked at him a moment, and her irritation bled away. "It's okay. Why don't you get out of your scrubs while I dish this up, and we can eat in front of the fireplace?" Ian squeezed his eyes shut. "Sounds great. I??" But then he opened his eyes, shook his head, and went to his room without finishing the thought. When he came out again, the plates were set on the coffee table, with glasses of wine waiting and a CD Cass liked playing softly. "I have no idea what kind of music you enjoy," she said as they sat on the floor opposite each other. "Is this okay?"
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"I haven't had much time for music. But this is good." He took a bite of chicken. "Mmm. So's this." He toasted her with his wine. "How is it you always end up taking care of me? I really meant to do the honors tonight." "You take care of people all day long." "You feed people all day long." "Not the same level of pressure as heart surgery." "Sometimes being fed is more important." "Give it up, Dr. Baker. I'm not going to let you take the blame. Just eat your dinner." "Yes, ma'am." She wouldn't let him clean up afterward, either. With the dishes in the dishwasher, she brought the wine bottle out, refilled their glasses, then turned off the lamps and curled up on the couch where she could watch Ian, still on the floor, and the fire. "Thank you for a lovely dinner. Consider yourself cleared of all obligation." "You cooked, cleaned up, and waited two hours to begin with." Cass shrugged. "I'm a take-charge kind of person. Being waited on really doesn't suit me." Ian pushed himself up off the floor and onto the opposite sofa, bracing his elbows on his thighs as he held his wineglass in both hands. "What does suit you?" The answer slipped out before she could stop it. "Being needed." "Yeah?" He moved to her couch, setting his glass on the table. "What else?" The fire flickered over his face, striking blue sparks deep in his eyes. "Um?being comfortable." Reaching out, he slipped off her shoes. "Better?" Cass smiled and wiggled her toes. "Much." "Anything else?" Staring into her wine, she debated asking That I want you to take off? but decided she wasn't brave enough to be quite that blunt. She risked a quick glance at the man next to her. "That suits me?" "Well?" His hand still rested on her ankle, his fingers circling lightly on her skin. The tremor caused by his touch streaked straight up her leg and set off an earthquake deep inside of her. "To be wanted," Cass said, barely above a whisper. He took the wine goblet from her shaky fingers and set it beside his on the table. "So, there are a few things I can do for you, after all." His fingers tilted her face up. His mouth touched the point of her chin, grazed the line of her cheek, placed a kiss on each eyelid. "I've wanted you from that first night," he said softly, skimming his fingers, then his lips, over her ear. "You were like a candle coming into my darkness, leaving warmth and light behind even when you weren't here."
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His kisses, light as they were, pressed her back into the soft leather sofa. She raised her hands to grip his shoulders, bring him closer, but Ian held back. "Are you warm enough? Too warm?" He set his mouth to her throat, nibbled lightly. "Ian?" She was losing the ability to think. "You're the first thing that comes to my mind in the morning when I wake up." He ran his fingers along the edge of her dress, over the sensitive skin of her shoulders, the tops of her breasts. "Seems like you're the sunshine that starts my day." He followed the trail of his fingers with his lips. "I need that thought of you to get me going." Crazy with her own need, Cass pulled his face to hers, seized his mouth for a breathless eternity of kisses. She let her hands roam freely, as his were, and soon they lay together with no barriers at all, except a desire to prolong the pleasure as long as possible. Finally, Ian settled over her, joining their bodies with a deliberation that drove her even wilder. Then he lifted his head to look into her eyes, his own glinting with a smile. "Are you okay? Comfortable enough?" "I'm going to kill you." Cass adjusted her hips with a move that made him groan. "You know, lady," he said breathlessly, "I think you might be right." CHAPTER SEVEN Thanksgiving drew near and the pace of Cass's life accelerated from busy to frantic. She'd always been an early riser, but when she stayed over at Ian's?? which happened more often than not?? she got up an hour earlier than her regular six a.m. That meant she got more cooking done before the stores opened at ten. But the house was almost finished. And she knew Ian was pleased with what she'd done. Pleased to see that his guest rooms provided a quiet elegance with which he felt comfortable. Pleased that his family room offered welcome and comfort?? to him and anyone else who came in?? with accents of color, contrasts of texture, and simple luxuries. Most of all, maybe, pleased that his kitchen had become a functional place, with food in the pantry and the refrigerator and, most nights, dinner on the table when he finally got home. She managed to be there at some point in the afternoon or evening and, even if she couldn't stay, to leave him something to eat. The extra cooking put more strain on her hectic schedule, but taking care of Ian was a pleasure well worth the effort. The weekend before the big day, she decided to introduce him to Ginger. He had two days off from the hospital, plenty of time for them to get to know each other. Late Friday afternoon, she packed up Ginger's household and went to Ian's, prepared to offer homemade lasagna and her little feline surprise when he walked in the door. Predictably, he still wasn't there by nine, so she cut herself a piece of lasagna, then curled up on the sofa with Ginger under the tapestry throw to watch the fire and wait. Warm, cozy, she dreamed that Ian was bending over her, his smile wide and sexy as he leaned in for a kiss. "Hey, beautiful. Where've you been all my life?" She smiled and kissed him back, and then realized with pleasure that it was real. He'd come home. Stretching, she reached up to put her arms around him. "Mmmm. What time is it?" Ginger stirred and peeked out from underneath the throw.
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"Midni??" His gaze dropped. He straightened up out of her hold. "What is that?" The cat scrambled away from his harsh tone, clawing at Cass's shoulder. "A kitten, of course. Ginger." "Did you find it outside the house? Are there more?" "No. I've had her since Halloween." Getting control of the trembling creature, she turned the sweet face toward him. "I brought her for you." Ian sneezed, and sneezed again. "N-no, thanks." "Are you getting a cold? And what do you mean, 'No, thanks'?" "I don't want a cat. I'm allergic." He backed around the coffee table to the other sofa. "You'll have to take her away." Allergic. How awful. "Are you sure?" Another series of sneezes. "Oh, I'm sure." She grappled frantically for a solution. "There are allergy shots you can take. Medicines. And you need a cat. Someone to be here when you come home." Until you ask me to be. "A reason to do something besides work. Ginger's perfect." Although as she kept trying to get away, she was pulling threads from Cass's brandnew velour sweater. Ian ran a hand over his face. "Look, I appreciate the thought?? though it would have been better if you'd asked me first, and saved us both the hassle. I just can't have a cat." He dropped down on the couch and put his head back. "Man, what a day." Hassle. That meant she'd done it again. Evidently, she never would learn not to be bossy. "What am I supposed to do with Ginger?" He opened one eye. "You can keep a cat at your place, right?" Her heart stopped for a long moment. "Of course." Now feeling very, very cold, she got to her feet and moved toward the door. "Cass?" Ian was on his feet again, staring at her across the vast expanse of his family room and kitchen. The space was friendly now, and inviting, with the fire crackling cheerfully, the lamplight glinting on gold and red and green accents, the scent of cider spicing the air. His family would know how good his life could be here in New Skye. And they'd never know that she had expected to be part of it. "I have to go." She opened the door and hurried outside, trying to keep hold of the cat and hold back her tears at the same time. What he'd just said, essentially, was that she had no more of a role in his life than the cat did. He hadn't used the L word yet. And Cass had been waiting on him, trying, for once, not to control the situation. Trying to let Ian take the lead. Good thing. This would hurt much worse if she'd told him she loved him. On the other hand, she wasn't sure it could hurt any worse.
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The only thing Ian knew for sure was that he had no clue. Cass had brought a cat to his house and when he didn't want it, she'd cut off all communication. He had some experience with women, though he didn't think of himself as Don Juan. Still, this was the strangest situation he'd ever encountered. To make matters worse, he didn't have time to do anything about it. The guy who was on call on Sunday came down with the flu Saturday afternoon and begged Ian to take over. So he spent Sunday in the hospital before beginning the regular workweek. People didn't much like seeing doctors in the days before Thanksgiving, so he made it home most nights by eight. But Cass wouldn't answer the phone, at work or at home. The finishing touches for the house magically appeared during the day, but she wasn't waiting for him anymore, with her warm smile and her hot kisses and her generous soul. How was he supposed to get through a week without waking up with Cass in his arms? Wednesday night, he came in to discover a mouthwatering aroma in the air, compliments of the pies on the counter?? pumpkin, pecan, and mincemeat, just as he'd ordered. Thursday morning, he went in for rounds at seven a.m., knowing no surgeries had been scheduled for the holiday. His family would be arriving about two. He should be home in plenty of time to talk with Cass and get this whole mess straightened out before they arrived. He really wanted his family to meet her. The news about a ten-car pileup on the interstate just outside of town only reached him after he got to work. CHAPTER EIGHT When Cass arrived at ten on Thanksgiving morning to find Ian's house empty, she drew a huge sigh of relief. As long as they weren't alone together, she could function as simply the hired help. She'd make dinner, be polite to his family, and then she'd never have to see him again. Him or his beautiful home. The turkey went into the oven at noon, and Ian hadn't shown up. She started on her special green bean casserole, peeled the potatoes, and put them in the pot, and he still hadn't arrived. Two o'clock drew ever closer. Ian didn't come home. Just as she set the yeast dough to rise for the first time, the front doorbell rang. With no other choice, she smoothed her hair, took off her apron, and prepared to face the Baker family. Alone. She opened the door. Standing on the porch was an assortment of adults, while a couple of little boys raced around the front lawn. Cass swallowed hard and called up some kind of smile. "Hi. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Baker." She searched for the oldest faces. "I'm Cassandra Stuart. Please, come in." As Mrs. Baker stepped inside, Cass realized that Ian looked like his mother. The same bone structure, the same deep-set blue eyes, which were surveying her now with outright suspicion. "Where is Ian?" "Where do you think he is, Dorothy?" Mr. Baker came in behind his wife, an approachable man with dark hair and twinkling eyes. "Where he always is?? at work." He held out a hand. "I'm Jeff Baker, Ms. Stuart. Good to meet you." His grin was like Ian's, definitely sexy even in his rounder face. "This is my son Jeff, Junior, and his wife, Honey, and that's our daughter, Melissa, with her husband, Todd. Those hooligans outside are Jason and Joshua." "I'm pleased to meet all of you." Cass held on to her poise by a thread. "Ian is still at the hospital?? there was an accident on the interstate this morning and I imagine he's been called in to operate. But I'll make you as comfortable as I can. Would you like to go to your rooms for a bit? And then I'll serve some appetizers while we wait for Ian to get here."
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With Mrs. Baker's assent, they went upstairs. Cass showed them to the rooms she'd thought they would like, and was gratified to hear murmurs of appreciation up and down the hall. Okay, she'd gotten that part right. Now, all she had to do was survive the rest of the afternoon. Ian drove home at six-thirty in a state of exhaustion coupled with dread. No woman would forgive a man who put her in the position he'd left Cass facing today?? welcoming strangers to a house where she had no real place or authority. That wasn't true, of course. Cass was the heart of his home, the soul of his life. If he hadn't realized that truth before, these past days without her would have done it. Today had brought him, once again, up against life or death choices and the realization of how precious time can be. There might never be enough. As he came in from the garage, he was surprised to hear his father's roar of laughter in the dining room. Baffled by sounds of celebration where he'd expected chilly silence, Ian stopped in the doorway to survey the scene. His family was clearly enjoying its collective self. His brother and sister and their spouses looked comfortable. He didn't see the nephews at first, but a quick glance into the family room found them playing some kind of video game on his new TV. Cass had joined them at the dining room table, her face flushed with effort and pleasure and, maybe, a glass of wine. She seemed perfectly at ease with his dad and his siblings. No one was ever at ease with Dorothy Baker, but as far as he could tell, Cass appeared to have made a truce. Of course she had. She was too gracious, too generous, not to have charmed even his mother. Ian cleared his throat. "Hi, everybody. Sorry I'm late." Chairs scraped the floor as they all surged around him for hugs. The chaos finally subsided when his mother filled his plate with her own hands and set it before him, along with a full glass of wine. Since he hadn't eaten since dawn, Ian was glad to dig in. As he looked around before that first bite, however, he found one face missing. "Where's Cass?" They all looked puzzled?? no one had seen her leave. Ian got to his feet again. "Excuse me a minute." His mother protested, but he waved her back. He would not let the woman he loved get away this time. He found her standing on the driveway staring at her car, blocked at the rear by his dad's SUV and on the side by his Saab. She would have to drive on the grass to get out. And Cass wasn't the kind to drive on the grass. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly, coming up behind her in the chilly darkness. "I left the kitchen clean," she said, without facing him. "You'll just need to put the dishes in to wash and store the leftovers." Ian smiled. "But isn't that part of what I hired you to do?" "Well, I'm sorry." She faced him, then, and he could see her temper had flared. "I wasn't supposed to have to entertain people all afternoon as well as cook. I thought the least you could do was clean up, but if that's too much?" Marching past him, she headed toward the house. "Cass." He caught her arm, pulled her up against him and heard her gasp. "I'm apologizing again. I'm not sure exactly what for, though. I mean?why did you get so upset over a cat?"
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With surprising strength, she tried to pull away. "Because it's more than the cat, idiot! If you don't want her, you don't want me. Is that too hard to understand?" But Ian didn't let her go. And, after a minute of concentrated thought, he began to see. He'd told her to keep the cat he didn't want. Which meant? "Boy, did I blow it." Chuckling, he put his arms around her stiff shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to send you away. I was too tired to think straight." "Are you allergic to me, too?" Though she didn't look up, she'd softened in his arms. "Not in the least. You, I can't live without." He lifted her chin so he could see her beautiful brown eyes. "And there are allergy shots. If you'll only come to me with the cat, then that's the way it'll have to be." "Ian?" Cass stopped, and dropped her gaze. He simply held her, waiting. Drawing a deep breath, she met his eyes. "I love you." "Yeah? What took you so long?" Finally, that wonderful smile warmed her face. "I was waiting for you, of course." "That's something you'll be doing a lot of, I guess. I can't seem to show up on time." Then he lowered his head, kissed her softly once, and again. "But never again for this. I love you, Cass Stuart. Today and always." They shared a real kiss, then, the kind he'd ached for in the long, lonely nights just past. When he raised his head, they were both breathing hard. "Let's go in and introduce my mother to the future Mrs. Baker." Halfway up the steps, Cass stopped and tugged on his hand. "That's really neat, you know." "What?" "I'll be Cassandra Baker." He bent down for another kiss. "I like the idea, myself." She gave him the kiss, but then shook her head. "No, I mean I'll be Cassandra Baker?of Sugar and Spice, Inc. Perfect, isn't it?" Ian grinned. "Whatever you think, love. You're the boss."
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SINGLE IN SAN FRANCISCO by Cara Summers Torrie Lassiter needs to find a man — now! Lucky for her, legend has it the skirt she's wearing is a manmagnet! In order to land a job as executive chef for the Monahan House San Francisco, Torrie must face off against another candidate — who just happens to be her ex-fiancé and the man who stole her last job, Avery La Rue! To build her confidence, Torrie plans to show up with a hot new lover on her arm — and the man behind the bar looks like the perfect candidate to play the role! What Torrie doesn't know is that he's no bartender — he's the hotel owner, and her potential employer! Jake Monahan has registered at his own hotel incognito so he can investigate the problems that have been plaguing his latest location. When the woman he wants to hire as his chef walks into the bar looking for a man, Jake happily volunteers. But is he just trying to make sure she's the right kind of woman for the job or is his interest in the leggy brunette more personal?
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE Torrie Lassiter paused just before she stepped into the bar of the San Francisco Monahan House. Her plan — to hire herself a pretend lover for the weekend — had seemed so simple and clever during the long flight from Chicago. But now that she was on the brink of implementing it, the warning bells and buzzers were going off in her mind. But she was not going to let herself back down. In her mind, she pictured pulling one switch at a time until every one of the bells and buzzers clicked off. Visualization was a technique she'd picked up from her globetrotting aunt Jan, and during the past year it had helped her get her confidence back. Avery La Rue, the man who'd stolen that confidence and a prestigious job at the Turtle Bay Inn from her, was not going to get the chance to triumph over her again. When she faced him with a new lover on her arm he would know that she was no longer the stupid, naïve girl he'd been able to manipulate so easily a year ago. And tomorrow morning when she competed against him in a cook-off, she would win! Mr. Monahan himself was going to sample the dishes and the winner would be offered the job of executive chef at the San Francisco Monahan House. Just as Torrie stepped into the arched entrance of the bar, her cell phone rang. Putting it to her ear, she said, "Yes?" "Well, what does your gigolo look like?" "Aunt Jan. I'm not hiring a gigolo." Torrie couldn't prevent a smile. Her aunt, who reminded her of Auntie Mame and General Patton all rolled into one, was the only person she'd shared her plan with. "I'm merely going to find a nice businessman who will do me a little favor." "By pretending to be your lover for the weekend." Her aunt's crack of laughter sounded in Torrie's ear. "Okay, call him whatever you want, but why don't you have him yet? The clock's ticking!" Torrie glanced at her watch. It was five o'clock and she was meeting Avery for drinks at seven. He'd called her in Chicago to set it up — just a friendly little drink for old times' sake. Right! Avery was about as friendly as the snake in the Garden of Eden. He'd called her because he'd wanted to size up his enemy. Perhaps he thought he could even seduce her again.
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He wasn't going to get the chance. By seven o'clock this evening, she was going to have an attractive, sexy man on her arm. She pictured it in her mind. "You're wearing the skirt, aren't you?" "Yes." Torrie glanced at her reflection in one of the mirrored walls that flanked the bar's entrance. Her aunt had been with her when she'd gotten the skirt that had always acted like a magnet with men. It had been spring break her junior year in college, and their cruise ship had blown off course to a tiny island that wasn't even on the map. Torrie had never forgotten the words of the woman who'd sold it to her: The island women weave the fabric in the moonlight with a special fiber. Whoever wears this skirt will attract her true love. So far, the "magic moonlit fibers" hadn't brought Torrie her true love, but every time she'd worn the skirt in college, some man had asked her out. More recently, she'd been wearing it for luck during the taping of her TV cooking show in Chicago. Turning sideways, she checked her profile in the mirror. The skirt had always looked ordinary to her — basic, black. It went well with any top, including the sleeveless shell she was wearing. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Aunt Jan asked. "Time's a wasting! If that skirt can attract your true love, it should certainly be able to reel in a gigolo or two." "One will be quite enough," Torrie said. "Talk to you later, Aunt Jan." She was placing the cell phone back in her purse when something in the mirror caught her eye. For a moment she could have sworn the fabric of the skirt glowed. And there'd been something else, too. Narrowing her eyes, she waited for it to happen again. It didn't. Maybe she was getting a little too good at the visualization thing. For an instant while the skirt was glowing, she'd also seen a man with his arms around her. Pushing the image away, she turned and saw the man again. Tall, dark, and handsome enough to make her eyes blink, he was standing behind the bar staring straight at her. He was perfect. For a moment, that was the only thought in her mind. But he was the bartender. She could hardly hire him. Pulling her gaze away, she glanced around the room. He was also the only man in the bar! What in the world was she going to do now? *** Jake Monahan tried to recall the last time his mind had been wiped clean by a woman. Third grade, when Mary Jane Delaney had offered to kiss him in the cloakroom? Even then, he'd managed to snap out of his trance long enough to take her up on her offer. Eyes narrowing, he gathered his thoughts and tried hard to assess the woman striding toward him. Because the room was dim and the light was behind her, he hadn't caught a good look at her face yet. What had captured his attention first were her legs. She wasn't that tall — perhaps five foot two or three, but her legs were amazing: long and slender and — he could see every inch of them through the sheer fabric of the skirt she was wearing.
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The elemental pull that he'd been feeling ever since she'd stepped into the doorway of the bar tightened at the same moment that an alarm sounded in the back of his mind. Damn! The last thing he needed was a professional lady of the night drumming up business in his hotel bar. Good thing he'd gone with his instincts and registered incognito so that he could personally check out the problems that had been threatening the reputation of his latest addition to the Monahan House chain. The hotel was celebrating its grand opening in less than a month, and it was crucial that it be running up to his standards by then. Forcing his gaze upward, Jake noted the woman's slender, athletic build, the snug fit of the tank top. His gaze lingered there, too, before he forced it higher, taking in the long, almost ebony-colored hair, the whimsical spirals of thin gold that dangled from her ears, and the eyes — a clear, deep blue. A flicker of recognition moved through him. Then for the second time in as many minutes, Jake felt his mind go blank. "Could I have a seltzer water with lime?" she asked. Jake heard the words, struggled to make sense out of them. She thought he was the bartender — no doubt because he'd stepped behind the bar for a minute to check the supplies while the real bartender went to fetch the champagne he'd ordered. Dragging his eyes from hers, he took in her other features — the delicate line of her cheekbones, a slightly pointed chin, the full, unpainted lips, a little pouty right now. She was speaking again…. Her mouth alone was enough to make a man's blood move. Suddenly, recognition flooded in. Her lips had always been curved upward in a smile on her television program. The woman standing before him was Torrie Lassiter, the Cordon bleu chef he wanted to hire for the top job in his San Francisco Monahan House kitchen. Right now she was looking at him expectantly. "Sorry. What did you say?" Jake asked. She climbed onto the stool and let her gaze sweep the room. "It's five o'clock and the only people in this bar are women sipping tea. Where are all the men?" She glanced at her watch. "I need one in a hurry." CHAPTER TWO Jake Monahan knew that top-of-the-line chefs were often temperamental and eccentric. But the last thing that he'd expected on his anonymous visit to check out the problems threatening his Monahan House San Francisco was to find Torrie Lassiter in his hotel bar…on the prowl. Over the top of the bar, he watched her cross her legs. As the skirt inched higher up her thigh, his mouth went dry and he wished for the bottle of champagne he'd just sent the bartender to get. This certainly wasn't the image that she projected on her TV cooking show. He made a point of watching it whenever he was in the Chicago viewing area because of the passion and enthusiasm she had about cooking. He'd known from the first time he'd seen her that he wanted her. No, that wasn't right. Jake forced his gaze away from her legs. He wanted her in his hotel kitchen. Nothing more. And he had to have misunderstood what she'd just said to him. He cleared his throat. "What did you just say?" She turned those wide blue eyes on him again. "I said, I need a man in a hurry, and I thought the bar would be the best place to pick one up. Where are they?" No, he hadn't misunderstood her, nor had he misread his own reaction to her. He wanted to be the man she needed.
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And that was impossible. He didn't get involved with women on a whim — certainly not on the basis of the kind of reckless desire that had been building in him since he'd seen her framed in the doorway. And he made it an unbreakable rule to never become personally involved with the people he employed or intended to employ in his hotels. "Look." She leaned a little closer to him. "I don't want to interrupt your break or anything — but could you get me a glass of seltzer water with a twist?" Get a grip, Jake told himself as he pushed himself back from the bar and fixed her a drink. Another minute of gazing into those blue-as-the-sea eyes of hers and he might have pointed out to her that he was a man — and available for anything she might have in mind. This was what came of working nonstop for the past five years. Perhaps Arthur, his right-hand man, was right, and he did need to take a break. Otherwise, why would he have to remind himself that the only reason he'd invited Torrie Lassiter here to the Monahan House in San Francisco was because he wanted her to be his executive chef? It was the hotel's manager, Marjorie Lyndon, who'd arranged a cook-off for publicity purposes. And she'd done it all without checking with him. That was one of the reasons why he was here. A lot of things were happening at this hotel that he didn't know about, and he had a feeling that the incidents weren't accidental. A man didn't get as far as he had in the business world by ignoring his instincts. Nor by throwing caution to the wind. What was it about Torrie Lassiter that had him suddenly wanting to do just that? As he placed the drink in front of her, Jake studied her. It was a lot easier to look at her in profile than it was to be trapped in those eyes of hers. People fascinated him almost as much as running a business did. And Torrie had intrigued him from the first time he'd seen her on TV. His gaze seemed to move of its own accord to her mouth. The urge to taste it, to taste her, was becoming irresistible. He couldn't recall ever having been pulled this quickly, this strongly to a woman before. One thing was for certain. He wanted to know more about Torrie than what was on the résumé he had in his files. If she intended to use his bar to pick up men, then she wasn't the right chef for Monahan House. This time, he leaned toward her and let himself flick one of the thin gold spirals that hung from her ear. "You know, the last time I checked, I was a man," he said conversationally. There was surprise and a touch of embarrassment in the look she gave him. "I didn't think you weren't. I mean…I just thought…you're the bartender." "No. She went to get the bottle of champagne I ordered. They're a little short staffed, and I told her I'd cover for her." The lack of adequate staff was something he would speak to Marjorie Lyndon about. "I assure you I'm a paying guest. And I imagine there'll be a lot more men coming in here in a couple of hours. It's only three o'clock." Torrie glanced at her watch and then groaned. "I'm still on Chicago time." Jake signaled the bartender, who'd just reappeared, for a second glass to accompany the champagne. "That must mean you have two hours to relax." He passed a bill to the bartender and signaled her to keep the change. "Thank you, sir. And thanks for keeping an eye on my customers." Stepping out from behind the bar, Jake smiled at Torrie. "Why don't you have a drink with me and we can talk about what you have in mind?"
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*** The man had a killer smile, complete with dimples. And Torrie had to admit he was perfect — tall, dark, handsome, and very attractive. Kind, too. She'd noted his generosity to the bartender. Quickly, she sized him up. The clothes were a bit travel worn. But even without a change in wardrobe, any woman who could breathe would give him a second look. Suddenly, an image slipped into her mind — his arms were around her, just as they'd been in that flash she'd seen in the mirror, except that one hand had moved beneath her chin. In a moment, he would draw her closer and kiss her. And she wanted him to. Warning bells and buzzers sounded in her mind. The last time she'd felt this drawn to a man — Avery La Rue — disaster had resulted. "I can vouch for the fact that the champagne's excellent. What do you say?" Torrie forced the image of Avery out of her mind, and took another look at the man standing in front of her. No doubt about it. He was the perfect man to make Avery La Rue rue the day he'd ever messed with her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "You want a man, and I'm available. Why don't we drink to it?" Heat unwound in a ribbon of fire up her arm. As he pressed the glass into her hand, his fingers brushed hers and champagne spilled onto her skirt. Only when he dabbed a napkin on the fabric to absorb the spill did his words finally penetrate the haze that had settled over her mind. You want a man, and I'm available. As he rubbed the napkin across the skirt a second time, an image filled her mind — just as clear and as potent as the one in the mirror had been — the two of them entwined on a small narrow bed. Torrie felt the heat stain her cheeks as she reached for his hand and removed it from her skirt. "I've given you the wrong impression. When I said I wanted a man — well, what I meant was that I have a business proposal to make." His left eyebrow shot up, but she could have sworn the smile left his eyes. "Not a problem. I'm a businessman. How much do you charge?" More heat flooded her cheeks. "Not that kind of business. I'm not proposing that you and I… that we…" Swallowing to ease the dryness in her throat, she tried again. "My proposal is strictly business. A job offer for the weekend. And it has nothing to do with sex. Understood?" He studied her for a moment, and then smiled that killer smile again. "Maybe we could negotiate that part?" CHAPTER THREE "No. That part is nonnegotiable," Torrie Lassiter said firmly. "I need a man to pretend to be my lover just until tomorrow at noon. There will be no sex involved." Relief surged through Jake, warring with the wave of desire that had been building inside of him from the moment he'd seen Torrie standing in the entrance to the bar. Torrie Lassiter was not here to pick up a man in the Monahan House bar.
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Well, at least not exactly…not in the way he'd thought. And it certainly wasn't disappointment he was feeling. It was definitely relief. That sudden urge to throw caution to the wind was probably because he was suffering from burnout. Or jet lag. And if he didn't stop looking into her eyes, he was going to kiss her. Drawing back a little, he plucked the champagne out of the bucket and tipped it carefully into the two glasses. "If I'm going to accept your offer, the least you can do is tell me why you need a pretend lover." *** Torrie studied him over the rim of her glass. He had dark intelligent eyes, and there was a determined gleam in them. She imagined he must be very good at whatever he did. With a sigh, she realized she was going to have to tell him the whole story. Not that she would have lied to him. But she'd been hoping for someone she wouldn't have to bare her soul to. Taking a sip of champagne, she poured the entire sordid saga out. He was a good listener. Not once did he interrupt, nor did he judge her. When she'd finished, she felt…better. He looked thoughtful. "So you met this La Rue guy at a big celebrity chefs' dinner and he follows you back to your job at the Turtle Bay Inn because he can't bear to be separated from you. You put him to work in your kitchen and one night, diners get mysteriously sick on your linguine with clams." Torrie nodded. "My signature dish. I always prepared it personally." "You resign at his suggestion — to protect the reputation of the inn — and he's right there, Johnny on the Spot, to take your place. Then he dumps you." He took her hand in his. "That's cold." Torrie glanced at their joined hands and absorbed the feeling — strong and warm — that moved through her. "Do you think he doctored the clam sauce?" he asked. She met his eyes in surprise. "No. A chef wouldn't ever use food as a weapon." *** She was a true innocent, Jake realized, and decided to have his assistant, Arthur, check into it. But right now, he had something else on his mind entirely. "About your offer…" Jake kept his eyes open and on hers as he cupped her chin. In business, he knew the value of making a strategic first strike, so he brought his mouth within a breath of hers. "This Avery sounds like a sharp guy. If we're going to pretend to be lovers, we ought to see if we can pull it off." She drew in a quick breath when his lips brushed hers. She didn't protest, didn't pull back, but he felt the tension ripple through her. He kept the kiss soft at first, teasing, testing them both. The moment her lips warmed, he parted them and took them both deeper. He watched her eyelids lower, felt the pulse under his finger skip. Each separate sensation moved through him and settled hot and hard in his center. Something in the back of his mind told him that tasting her was different than tasting other women. The depth of what he was feeling was different. Something inside of him warned him to pull back. But to do that would be to deny what had always helped him succeed in business. A man who discovered something new and didn't explore it was a fool. Sliding his hand to the back of her neck, he nipped at her bottom lip and took them both deeper still.
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As sensations bombarded her — the scrape of his teeth, the heat of his tongue sliding seductively over hers — Torrie fought to keep her hands fisted in her lap. Not to keep from shoving him away, but to keep from touching him. Oh, how she wanted to press her fingers into those dimples, to run them through his hair, to test the muscles under that shirt. It was shocking how much she wanted to feel his skin heat beneath her hands. The desperation racing through her was so different, so new. When he drew back, all she was aware of was how cool the air-conditioning felt on her skin, how devastating was the sense of loss that had settled over her. Jake signaled the bartender. "Send the rest of the bottle up to my room." There was only one thought in his mind. He was going to take Torrie Lassiter there. Taking her arm, he eased her from the stool. "Let's go." "Mmmm?" It was a mistake to look at her. Somehow, the skirt had inched its way even higher when she'd slid from the stool. One look at those legs and he had a vivid image of what they would feel like wrapped around him. One look at that mouth, still swollen from his kiss, had an edgy blade of desire slicing through him again. "We're going to my room." "Your room?" Another minute and those dreamy eyes were going to have him on his knees. "Come on." *** He'd managed to drag her fewer than two steps before his words finally began to sink in. They were going to his room — the image flashed suddenly into her mind — the two of them on a narrow bed, pressed so close they seemed to be one. She couldn't. She could. Just then she spotted two people moving through the lobby toward the entrance to the bar. Avery La Rue and a woman she'd never seen before. Torrie stopped and pulled Jake to a halt. "We can't." He turned then, moving his hands to her shoulders. "Of course we can. I won't hurt you." Peeking past his shoulder, she saw that Avery La Rue and the woman were only a few feet away from the entrance. "It's him." "Who?" "Avery La Rue. I can't face him right now. I'm not ready." Frantic, she looked around for a spot to hide. But the only place that offered any kind of cover was a cluster of potted plants at the side of the bar. "Come on," she said. Pulling him with her, she ducked down behind the plants. *** As they settled themselves on the floor, Torrie slipped her hand into his. Jake held it tight and struggled with the emotions running through him. Analysis was his forte in business, so he could put a name to some of them.
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Jealousy because Torrie Lassiter obviously still felt something for this man she'd been involved with a year ago. But overriding that was an urge to protect. And something else that ran deep, even deeper than the passion she'd aroused in him. It spread from where her hand gripped his tightly, running through him, sweet and true. A man's voice spoke. "Bartender, we're looking for a small, slender brunette — Torrie Lassiter." "You just missed her," the bartender said. "Avery." It was the woman speaking now. "I don't see why we had to rush down here. You're going to meet the woman for drinks at seven. And you promised me some…private time before then." Jake immediately recognized the voice as belonging to his San Francisco manager, Marjorie Lyndon. "Just trying to get the jump on the competition. I have a history with Torrie. I know her vulnerabilities. Throwing her off stride is a key step in my plan to win." "But you're going to win, darling. I told you I have everything all —" "Yes, I know, my dear. But we shouldn't be discussing this in public. The walls have ears." *** As the voices faded, Torrie let out the breath she was holding. Time was running out. In so many ways the man crouched beside her was all wrong for the job. She needed a clear head if she wanted to win the competition against Avery La Rue. And the man sitting beside her… She realized with a little start that she didn't even know his name! She should call the whole thing off right now. She could tell him that she'd changed her mind. She would…immediately. CHAPTER FOUR From her position on the floor behind the potted plants, Torrie considered her options. Somehow, in all of her planning, this little complication had never occurred to her. The problem was — could she spend any length of time with the man whose hand was gripped tightly in hers and just pretend to be his lover? "I'll do it," Jake said. "I'll be your pretend lover — on one condition." Torrie tore her gaze from their joined hands and met his eyes. There was something in them that she hadn't seen before — the kind of intensity that might be visible in the eyes of a shark studying its prey. It occurred to her again that she'd kissed him, almost gone to his room with him, and she didn't even know his name! What was she thinking? This was her last chance to tell him that it had all been a joke, to send him away. Then she thought of Avery, the smug confidence she'd heard in his voice. It had been more than enough to rekindle a memory of the pain, the self-doubt. Torrie cleared her throat. "What's your condition?" "Our pretend love affair has to last beyond tomorrow when your cook-off will be over. We're going to spend the entire weekend together." His words — we're going to spend the entire weekend together — sent images tumbling into her mind. Each one of them was enough to bring back the sensations that had flooded through her when he'd been kissing her — when she'd been kissing him back. Drawing in a deep breath, Torrie eased her hand out of his and clamped down ruthlessly on the little fantasies that were doing their best to settle themselves in her mind.
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"I don't think that would be…wise. My only reason for doing this is to prove to Avery that I'm not the same woman I was a year ago." His eyebrows rose. "But you did say this was strictly a business proposition." "It is." "Then I should get something that I want out of it." When she started to say something, he raised a hand. "All I'm asking in return is your company for the weekend. I hear that San Francisco is a beautiful city. Why don't we explore it together?" She lifted her chin. "Okay, but I have two conditions. Number one, I want to know your name." * * * Jake stared at her for a moment, completely nonplussed. He'd completely forgotten about the fact that they hadn't as yet exchanged names. And when he told her, it was definitely going to complicate things. He had a feeling that she might not be too comfortable with the idea of having her future boss masquerading as her pretend lover. Hell, he shouldn't be comfortable with it himself. She might not agree to spend the weekend with him. He didn't want that. For reasons he didn't want to examine too closely, he wanted very much to spend the weekend with Torrie Lassiter. "Jake," he said, extending his hand. "Jake…?" she asked as she shook it. He smiled easily. "Since I'm your pretend lover, you can make up the last name." She nodded. "Okay, condition number two, we're not going to… I mean, you may have gotten the wrong impression from that kiss… I'm not going to… We're not going to…" She was babbling. So the kiss they'd shared had thrown her as much as it had him. There was some satisfaction in that. And she was going to agree to the weekend. It was comforting to know that he still had the power to negotiate until he got what he wanted. For a moment there, when he'd been kissing her, he'd lost all track of where he was and what he'd come to San Francisco to do. And as much as masquerading as Torrie Lassiter's lover might help him to figure out exactly what Marjorie Lyndon was up to behind his back, he wasn't doing it for that reason. He was doing it because he wanted Torrie Lassiter. "I don't think… It would be better if we didn't kiss again," Torrie said. "I couldn't disagree more. We're going to kiss again," Jake said. And more, he thought, but he didn't say it aloud. There were vulnerabilities as well as passions that lay beneath the surface of Torrie Lassiter. "For starters, because we're never going to pull this little charade of yours off if we don't put on a convincing act of being lovers. Perception is everything — and your whole point is to shake this La Rue guy up, isn't it?" "Yes." She couldn't argue with that. "And then there's another reason why we're going to kiss again." He took her hand again, and when it trembled, he merely held it in his. No, she wasn't at all what he'd thought she was when she'd first walked into the bar. And she wasn't nearly as confident as the image she portrayed on TV. Jake was certain of one thing. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything. "I don't think so," she said.
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"Reason number two," he corrected firmly. "Neither one of us is going to be able to forget that first kiss. We're both wondering right now if it was a fluke or if we can strike up that fire again." Torrie opened her mouth and then shut it. How in the world was she going to answer that when even now, she was thinking of kissing him again? Her gaze had dropped of its own accord to his mouth. His lips were curved in that half smile. And the dimples were about to appear. Quickly she forced her gaze down. She had to focus on something else. Anything. The skirt. In the dim light that fell through the palm leaves they were crouched behind, she thought she could see the trace of a shiny thread in the fiber. As she studied it, she felt her nerves begin to calm. It reminded her of the glimmer of moonlight on water. Funny, she'd never noticed it before. "Have you ever made love just for the fun of it?" Her eyes flew to his. For one moment, Torrie allowed herself to think about making love with Jake. All right, think ,I>again about making love with him. Truth told, the thought hadn't been out of her mind since she first laid eyes on him. "Look." Pushing the images out of her mind, she met his eyes squarely. "I came here for one reason — to win the job of executive chef at this hotel. I can't afford to make love or anything else just for the fun of it until I get this job. Can you understand that?" He nodded. "How about a compromise? In public, I call the shots. I do what's necessary to carry off the role of your lover. In private, I'll let you make the first move." She would have felt a whole lot easier if Jake hadn't looked so damned confident. Perhaps it was time to shake him up just a little. Taking his hand, she drew him to his feet and pulled him with her. "C'mon. I'm making my first move." He was drawing her in a beeline toward the bank of elevators when she tugged his hand and veered off toward a row of shops. "I thought we were going to the room." "First we're going shopping," she explained. "If you're going to be my lover for the weekend, you need a new wardrobe." "Now wait just a minute —" "Hey, you said it. Perception is everything." She turned into a shop with men's clothes in the window. "Unless you're going to renege on the deal?" CHAPTER FIVE Three hours later, Torrie paced back and forth in front of the small balcony in her hotel room. She felt as if she'd been caught up in a tornado. Every so often, she glanced at the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance to assure herself that she hadn't been deposited somewhere over the rainbow with Toto and Dorothy. How could so much have changed in the past few hours? Moving toward the bed, she sank down on it. She should be thinking of her upcoming meeting with Avery, but she couldn't stop thinking about Jake. The shopping had been fun. He'd been such a good sport in the men's store. She recalled how they'd laughed together at one of the outfits the sales clerk had recommended and how he'd teased her, warning her that like Pygmalion she might fall in love with her "creation." Could she?
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No. Impossible. Pressing a hand against her stomach, she tried to still the panic that threatened to bubble up. Her mind was just playing tricks on her because Jake had invaded her room. Perception is everything, he'd said. His grin in combination with his dimples had driven any reasonable objections she might have had right out of her mind. As a result, his "stuff" was sitting next to hers on the nightstand and the desk. Right now he was puttering around and getting dressed in her bathroom. All during the long shower he'd taken, she should have been visualizing her upcoming meeting with Avery. Instead, all she'd been able to picture in her mind was Jake. What it would be like if she just had the courage to join him in that shower. To run her hands over that slick, wet skin, that narrow waist, that… No! She had to get a grip. Moving to the bed, she sank down and smoothed the material of the skirt over her legs. Touching it had helped to center her before. The words slipped so quietly into her mind: Whoever wears this skirt will attract her true love. "Well?" Torrie turned just as Jake stepped out of the bathroom, and her eyes widened. He had a white T-shirt in one hand, a blue silk dress shirt in the other. But the only thing he was wearing was a new pair of jeans. "I'm thinking the dress shirt might go better with the jacket," he said. She struggled to picture him wearing the shirt and the linen jacket they'd chosen together. But the image wavered. Even his feet were bare. Suddenly, the room seemed smaller, the air thicker. "What do you think?" She thought she was in very big trouble. For the past year all she'd done was run — from Avery, from her job. Even her work on the television show had been an escape — because she'd been afraid to take a job in a restaurant. When you cooked in front of a TV camera, you didn't have to worry about making people sick. Torrie Lassiter was a coward. But for once in her life, she wasn't going to wait and she wasn't going to run. *** Jake was in very big trouble. No woman had ever made him beg, but in another minute he was going to be on his knees. One look into her eyes, and he was cursing himself. Why in the world had he promised her that she could call the shots between them in private? If he hadn't, he could move toward her right now, it would be so easy. She was already on the bed, and he could have her beneath him in a second. "Torrie," he finally managed. "I know what I promised. But if you don't stop looking at me like that…" "I've never wanted anyone — anything — as much as I want you right now." Jake let the two shirts slip through his fingers. Then he moved toward her. "You can't say something to me like that when we're alone and expect me not to —" "Kiss me," she said.
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He did then, taking her face in his hands and lowering his mouth to hers. He was going to take it slow and easy, to draw out the pleasure for both of them. During the long, cold shower he'd taken, he'd imagined all of the things he'd wanted to do to her. His plan vanished the moment her taste poured into him. "I don't think I could have waited much longer," he murmured as he trailed kisses down her throat. "No." Her hands were busy. It seemed as though he'd been waiting all of his life for the press of those strong, slim fingers on his skin. Everywhere she touched, heat — waves of it — spread through him. "This is crazy." Her voice was just a breath in his ear. "Insane." Never had his control been stretched so thin. Never had he been this desperate to taste, to touch, to possess. She was so slim, so strong. He pushed the skirt out of his way, slipped his fingers beneath the lace of her panties and found her. "I want you to come for me." He barely managed to whisper the words when he felt the shudders move through her and watched the stunned pleasure flood her eyes. He'd wanted this, needed to see her trapped in the pleasure he could bring her. And it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Then her fingers were at the zipper of his jeans. He closed his hand around them. "Wait." Tightening the slipping grip he had on his control, he snagged the shaving bag on the nightstand and found the foil packet. "Please." Her softly spoken demand started a drumbeat in his head. Desperate, they worked together to get rid of his jeans. Then he slipped the condom on. "Now," she said. Wrapping her legs around him and taking him in. Through a haze of pleasure, she saw him rise above her, dark hair, intense eyes. He was all she could see. Then she was moving with him, they were moving together, quickly, almost furiously. Never had she imagined the speed, the sheer recklessness of it, and the glory of it delighted her. Then all she knew was bright spiraling colors, arrowing flames of heat, and an unbearable explosion of pleasure. And through it all, all she could see was Jake. All she wanted was Jake. *** The ringing of the phone was the first thing she heard. Jake reached for it. "Hello?" Lifting her head, she sent him a questioning look and saw his face harden a little. "Tell Mr. La Rue that Ms. Lassiter was unavoidably delayed. She'll join him shortly." "Avery!" She shot straight up and off the bed. "I completely forgot. How could I have —?" She let the question trail off as she looked at Jake's discarded clothes. He was naked. She was still fully dressed — except for her panties. They were lying on the floor on top of his jeans. Picking them up, she tossed them at him. "Get dressed." "Relax," Jake said, taking her hand and pulling her back down beside him. "You might get to call the shots inside this room, but I draw the line at wearing women's panties." Torrie stared at what she'd thrown at him, then handed him his jeans and took her panties back. "You made me forget why I'm here."
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He smiled at her then, and she sighed. "It's not going to help me think clearly at all if you use those dimples on me." "We're going to get dressed, go down to the bar, and throw Avery La Rue off course." Hearing Jake say it so calmly helped ease the bubbles of panic in her stomach. Then he was reaching into the pocket of his jeans. "And just to give you a little extra confidence, you're going to wear this. The moment he took the small box out of his pocket, the panic bubbles attacked, and they weren't content this time to remain in her stomach. They were exploding through her whole system as Jake slipped a diamond ring on her finger. CHAPTER SIX Torrie's head was still spinning half an hour later when she and Jake walked across the lobby to join Avery in the bar. Somehow, her simple plan to hire a pretend lover for the weekend had spiraled out of control. She hadn't planned on seducing him. And she certainly hadn't expected him to put a diamond ring on her finger. He'd picked it up on approval in one of the hotel shops while she'd been settling the bill for his clothes. If she'd been able to string two coherent words together, she would have told him to take it off. She should have pulled it off herself, but every time she looked at it, the brilliance of the stone made her eyes hurt and her stomach knot. And seeing the ring on her finger made her wish…. She caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirrored walls that flanked the entrance to the bar — the tall, darkly handsome man in the pale linen jacket and jeans — and the woman in the skirt that for just a second seemed to glow with light. They looked so perfect together. But they weren't real, she reminded herself. Then Jake's hands moved, one gripping her shoulder, the other her waist. As he pulled her into his arms, she remembered she'd seen this image before in the mirror. Then his mouth covered hers, and she couldn't think at all. The kiss was hard and potent, and her body responded instantly, her mouth opening for him, her arms gripping his shoulders. A fresh wave of excitement rushed through her. He touched. She wanted. It was simple, elemental. Kissing Jake just felt so…right. Even as the realization moved through her, he ended the kiss. Still holding her close, he moved his mouth to her ear. "Remember. Perception is everything." Just beyond his shoulder, Torrie saw Avery La Rue rise from his table. And she remembered that they were doing all this for his benefit. "Showtime," Jake murmured as he steered her toward the table. The scene was just as she'd visualized it in her mind hundreds of times. She was walking toward Avery La Rue in a public place with a handsome man — a lover — on her arm. She was strong, self-confident and nothing at all like the woman he'd found it so easy to manipulate a year ago. The expression on Avery's face — curiosity at first, then astonishment and a flicker of annoyance — was exactly what she'd hoped for.
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"Torrie," he murmured, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. The shock when he saw the diamond — that was an added bonus. She might have appreciated it even more if Jake hadn't just reminded her that the kiss, the ring, everything was just a show. She watched Avery's gaze narrow just before he shifted it to study Jake. "I'm Jake. Torrie's fiancé." As the two men shook hands, the differences between her ex-fiancé and her new, fake one suddenly struck Torrie. Avery was all smooth sophistication from his gestures right down to the sleekness of his clothes. As he recovered from his initial surprise, he began to take Jake's measure. She caught a gleam of calculation in his eyes that she'd never seen before. The champagne bucket, a single white rose in a delicate vase testified to the care with which he'd planned this meeting. Had his original pursuit of her been this carefully orchestrated? Had she been too blinded by her feelings for him to see it? She certainly couldn't accuse Jake of any calculation. Spontaneity seemed to be his middle name — and hers, too, since she'd met him. But there was a quietness about him now that made her think of the stillness of a jungle predator as it waited for its prey to show some kind of weakness. The focused intensity was there in the way he was studying Avery and in the way he was still holding her hand. "Congratulations," Avery said. "I had no idea…." She jerked her gaze back to Avery. Though his tone was puzzled, she saw anger in the frowning glance he gave her. "I spoke with Maynard Glassman two days ago. He never mentioned an engagement." Torrie's mind began to race. Maynard was her TV producer. He would have been among the first to know about any engagement. Jake gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I just popped the question a few minutes ago. You're the first person we're sharing our happiness with." "You flew out here together then?" Avery asked. "No," Jake said. Torrie shut her mouth. She'd been about to say yes. And she was sure that Avery could tell. The calculating look was back in his eyes. "I surprised her by showing up about two hours ago," Jake continued. "A spur of the moment decision on my part." "We'll have some champagne to celebrate. I want to hear all about this spur of the moment engagement. Sit down and I'll pour." "No thanks," Jake said with an easy smile. Then he sent her a look that had her knees melting. "We have other plans for celebration." The way he was looking at her, Torrie could almost believe the plans were real. She wanted them to be. Worse, she wanted Jake and her to be real, too. "I distracted Torrie so much that she nearly forgot she'd promised to meet you. She insisted that we come to give you the news in person and to wish you luck tomorrow at the cook-off. You'll have to excuse us."
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A second later, Torrie found herself being propelled out of the bar. Once again she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirrored wall. They weren't real, she reminded herself. And if she didn't get a grip and separate reality from the little fantasy she'd convinced Jake to participate in, she stood a good chance of losing everything she'd worked so hard to achieve. A year ago she'd allowed a man to sweep her off her feet and snatch her dream away from her. Was she about to make the same mistake again? *** "I don't think it's a good idea — going up to my room right now," she said. Jake turned to study her and he could see exactly what she was thinking. Everything was always so clear in her eyes. She'd been a pushover for Avery La Rue. He felt the flash of anger burn through him and forced it down. "History is not going to repeat itself," he said. "I'm not Avery La Rue. And what happened between the two of you was not your fault. He wanted your job at the Turtle Bay Inn, and he seduced you to get it. He may very well have put something in that clam sauce just to move his plan along." She blinked, but she didn't argue with him. "You want to blame yourself, but it wasn't your fault. Hell, he was about to try the same game plan tonight." And he might have succeeded. That was the thought that had been rolling through him since he'd taken in the little scene in the bar. And Torrie had feared it, too. It wasn't merely for revenge that she had come up with this fake lover charade. What he wanted to do was take her up to the room right now and make love to her until she wouldn't, couldn't ever think of Avery La Rue again. But that was the last thing that Torrie needed right now. "He wouldn't have succeeded," she said. It helped a little to hear her say it — to see the truth of it in her eyes. Something inside of him, the hard knot of jealousy perhaps, began to ease. "I can handle Avery," she said. "But I really think it would be better —" She was going to brush him off, Jake realized. She was going to back out of their deal. CHAPTER SEVEN Torrie was going to back out of their deal. Jake could see it in her eyes, and the panic sprinting through him was taking away his ability to speak, to think. "You've been very kind. You've helped me to see Avery very clearly. But I have the cook-off in the morning and I really should —"
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When she backed a step away from him, Jake finally moved, taking her arm and pulling her with him toward the door. "I've got a better idea." In just a minute he'd know what it was. He was sure of it. Just as sure as he was that he couldn't let her go. "What?" The moment they were out of the street, he spotted the cable car, pausing to release passengers in front of the hotel. "A date," he said, suddenly inspired. "A date?" She sounded as if he'd just said a word in a foreign language. But she'd lost the look of determination that had been in her eyes a moment ago. Jake felt his panic begin to ease. "You know — two people go out, have dinner, get to know one another. We haven't had one yet." "But —" He raised a hand, beginning to enjoy himself. "Besides, we had a deal. Lovers for the weekend. We have two days to go." The whole time he was talking, he was drawing her toward the cable car. "Besides, if you go back to your room, you're just going to worry about the cook-off tomorrow." Hopping up the first step, he drew her with him. "I've never ridden on one of these. Have you?" "No." The car lurched suddenly and he pulled her close. He felt her stiffen, but she didn't pull away as the car lurched again and started up the hill. *** It was after midnight when Torrie stood in front of the window in her hotel room and stared out at the Golden Gate Bridge. Thin strips of moonlight poured through the slatted drapes. One of them striped the skirt lying on the back of a chair and caused the threads to shimmer. Once again, the words of the island woman slipped into her mind. Whoever wears it will attract her true love. She was pretty sure she'd fallen in love with the man who lay sleeping on the bed a short distance away. Whatever had started when she'd first seen him standing behind the bar had solidified during the evening they'd just spent together. He'd given her a whirlwind tour of the city — a cable car ride, a walk on the wharf. They'd even danced to an old-fashioned jukebox in the Fog City Diner. And then they'd made love again. But she didn't kid herself that there was going to be a future for Jake and her. What the island woman failed to mention was that stories of true love frequently ended unhappily. And not once during the evening they'd spent together — or even after, when there'd been almost desperation in his lovemaking — had Jake mentioned anything beyond tomorrow. Neither had she. Even now, watching him sleep, Torrie could feel the pull he had on her. It was as strong and true as gravity. She'd been tempted to run from him in the lobby earlier — to take the coward's way out as she had with Avery. She would never let herself play the part of the coward again. And for tonight, Jake was hers. She could show him what she might never have the chance to tell him. ***
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Heart pumping, head whirling, Jake shot awake to find himself steeped in her. Her mouth was already busy on his, her kisses hot and hungry. Her body kindled flames in his where it pressed full length on top of him. Even as he struggled to think, her scent surrounded him, taunting him with all the dark secrets he'd been dreaming about. Wants and needs rocketed through his system as those slender, clever hands moved over him. Before he could even get a thin grasp on control, his only thought was to take, to devour. He found her then — those small, firm breasts, the strong, slender ribs, the narrow waist and finally that soft inner heat. He pushed into her and in that moment of joining, he felt the tremor move through her. She was his. Just as she'd been his in the dream before she'd begun to slip away. In the moonlight, he could see her face flushed with passion, her eyes dazed with pleasure. This time he wouldn't let her go. He couldn't. His. The word sapped his control, pushing him to drive them both to the brink of madness. "I want you." Neither was sure who said the words. They were too lost in each other as they began to move as one. Later, they lay together in the moonlight, their limbs tangled as they slept. *** Jake woke this time to sunlight pouring across the bed. A bed that didn't contain Torrie. Panic knotted in his stomach as he pushed himself up and looked around. "Torrie?" Silence. The moment he stood up, his gaze fell on the note. It was lying on the desk, propped against the case that held his laptop. I've gone to meet Avery for the cook-off. He might not have thought twice about the brevity of the note if it hadn't been propped right next to the name tag on his briefcase — a name tag that identified him as Jake Monahan. On the back of the tag was the embossed logo of the Monahan chain of hotels — the same logo that decorated the note she'd left. She had to have seen it. What would she be thinking? The worst. That he was a liar, just as Avery had been before him. Grabbing his jeans, he dragged them on, then strode across the room to pull a shirt off of a hanger. He should have told her the truth last night. The excuse that he'd given to himself — that he didn't want to rattle her before the cook-off — was a lie. He hadn't told her who he was last night because he'd quite simply wanted to be with her. He didn't want to lose her. Now, there was a good chance that he had. Worse than that, he'd allowed her to discover his deception at the worst possible moment — just as she was about to compete with La Rue in the cook-off. He had to find her. The ringing of his cell phone reminded him to pick it up as he headed toward the door. Arthur had promised to call the moment he had something on La Rue and the incident at the Turtle Bay In "What have you got, Arthur?"
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"I'm not Arthur. Are you the gigolo my niece hired? And where is my niece?" Damn. It was Torrie's cell phone that he'd grabbed. "It's a long story. I'm on my way to find her right now." "To find her? Have you lost my niece?" As he left the room with the cell phone pressed to his ear, Jake wondered if things could get any more messed up. CHAPTER EIGHT Torrie entered the kitchen of the Monahan House San Francisco fifteen minutes before her cook-off with Avery was scheduled to begin. The scents made her mouth water. The sounds nearly deafened her. Waiters rushed past, shouting orders, and amidst the confusion, a young chef to her right teased a perfect omelet onto a plate. She was home. For the first time since she'd accidentally discovered the name tag on Jake's briefcase, she was able to shove aside the questions and fears flooding through her. She'd come to San Francisco to become the executive chef at this hotel, and learning Jake Monahan's true identity was not going to deflect her from her goal. That's what she'd told herself in the room when she'd dressed in slacks and her white chef's jacket. She'd left the skirt behind along with the fantasy that Jake Monahan was her true love. Ignoring the little band of pain that tightened around her heart, she let her gaze sweep the room. It was time to get back to reality and to what had always been important to her. When she spotted a man pointing a TV camera at Avery, she started toward him. The tall blond woman who'd been with him in the bar yesterday stepped forward. "I'm Marjorie Lyndon, the manager of Monahan House San Francisco. A local TV station will be taping the entire event. I believe you and your opponent have met." "Torrie." "Avery." She was very much aware that the TV camera was running as Avery took her hand, drew her toward him and kissed her on both cheeks. When he reached the side away from the camera, he whispered, "History has a way of repeating itself." Torrie felt a familiar twist of panic in her stomach. Pushing it down, she turned and moved toward her workstation. A man clipped a small microphone to her jacket. Marjorie Lyndon began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen…" Out of the corner of her eye, Torrie caught sight of her reflection in the stainless steel refrigerators that lined the wall. For just a second, she thought she saw Jake there, too, with his arms around her. Pushing the fantasy away, she focused her attention on the group that had gathered in front of her workstation, and she saw him again. Jake was here and he was real. For the first time since she'd left him in the room, Torrie let herself want more than the job. As impossible as it was, she wanted Jake, too. "On the counter in front of each of our chefs is a set of ingredients that they must use in whatever they create," Marjorie explained. "And the results will be tasted by none other than Mr. Jake Monahan, who I see has arrived." When Marjorie introduced Jake to the audience, Avery shot her a look of pure hatred. But there was no fear. The man's confidence was definitely back.
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The moment the white cloth in front of her was whisked away, Torrie realized why. The ingredients on the counter were the ones she used for her signature dish at the Turtle Bay Inn — Linguine with Clams à la Lassiter. The last time she'd prepared it, everyone who'd ordered it had become ill. Avery's words came back to her. History has a way of repeating itself. *** Jake stood at the back of the small crowd and debated what to do. The quick surge of relief he'd felt when he'd first seen Torrie had faded the moment he'd seen the ingredients that lay on the table before her. Was this La Rue's way of throwing her off stride and getting the upper hand? And what part was Marjorie Lyndon playing in it? He could put a stop to the cook-off right now. It wasn't the fact that a TV camera was rolling that stopped him. It was Torrie. He'd been thinking only of himself last night. Right now, the least he could do was to allow her to do what she'd come to San Francisco for. The look on her face told him that she had become totally focused on what she was doing. The energy, the enthusiasm for cooking that had fascinated him on that night when he'd first seen her on TV began to fill the room as she spoke directly into the camera. Jake leaned back and began to enjoy the show. *** In one quick motion, Torrie scooped up the parsley she'd just minced and sprinkled it over the finished platter of Linguine with Clams à la Lassiter. The rush of adrenaline she'd felt when she'd started the dish was fading. Avery's threat chanted its way back into her mind. Relax, she told herself. The clams had been perfectly fresh. And she'd sampled the sauce three times. It was as good as any she'd ever made. As the heady aroma of garlic and spices wafted up from the platter, Torrie felt the first wave of nausea sweep over her. She saw Marjorie motioning Jake forward. "No. You can't," Torrie began, then swallowed quickly as another wave of nausea hit her. "Nonsense." Marjorie was quick to interrupt her, moving toward the platter and picking up a fork. Something was definitely wrong with the linguine. Torrie fought against dizziness as Marjorie deftly twirled strands of pasta around a fork and offered it to Jake. Lunging forward, she grabbed Marjorie's hand and heard the fork clatter to the floor just before the darkness closed in around her. *** "Ipecac? That's what Avery slipped into my linguine?" Torrie asked. "Both times, I imagine," Jake said, sitting down on the edge of the bed to prevent her from springing up. "They found traces of it in the olive oil." In spite of the assurances of the doctors in the ER and the lab report
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he'd just received, Jake still hadn't fully recovered from seeing her sink bonelessly to the floor. He hadn't let her out of his sight since then. "The doctor at the ER said Ipecac's the standard first line of treatment when little kids swallow something they're not supposed to. It causes them to toss their cookies in a very short amount of time. Marjorie wanted everyone on the six o'clock news to see me getting sick on food from my own hotel. She met Avery when he flew out to personally apply for the job. Once she learned the history between the two of you, she enlisted Avery's help, believing that when I investigated things, he'd take the fall and she'd remain in the clear. In the meantime, she'd have succeeded in garnering some very bad publicity for the grand opening and she'd also be able to continue causing me problems." "Did she tell you why?" "No. But I've had my assistant, Arthur, checking into her phone records, and she's been in frequent contact with the corporation I outbid for the hotel. The man who heads it is an old business rival of mine. I imagine her motive was simple greed. And they may have believed that I'd be willing to sell if the Monahan House San Francisco ran into a spell of bad luck." "Would you have?" Torrie asked. "No." He met her eyes squarely. "I don't give up that easily. And I'm not going to give up on you." *** Torrie felt the bubble of panic in her stomach expand until it threatened to burst. More than anything she wanted to get up and pace, but Jake sat next to her on the edge of the bed, blocking her way. She glanced down at where their hands were joined on her lap. She was still wearing the ring he'd placed on her finger. Closing her eyes, she summoned up the image in her mind that had gotten her through the cookoff — Jake standing with his arms around her. He cleared his throat. "I wasn't…I haven't been honest with you, Torrie. There's no excuse for that. But I want you…I need you to believe me now. Look at me." Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. "I love you." When she opened her mouth, he raised a hand to stop her. "I think I fell in love with you the very first time I saw you on TV in Chicago. There was something about you even then." Her eyes widened. She'd been wearing the skirt. She'd worn it every time she taped a show. Was he only in love with her because of the skirt? "I tried to analyze what it was — your obvious talent and expertise, your love for your work. Now I know that it was just you. It took me a year to come up with the idea of offering you a job. I thought once you were here working for me I could prove to myself that what I'd felt was a passing fancy. Then within two hours of seeing you, I found myself putting a ring on your finger. When I woke up this morning and found you gone, all I could think of was finding you. And when I saw you standing in the kitchen of my hotel, ready to face Avery La Rue, I suddenly realized that I want that ring to stay where it is. I want you to be a permanent part of my life." She hadn't been wearing the skirt during the cook-off. She wasn't wearing it now. Still… "Are you sure? Maybe it's the skirt." "What skirt?"
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The look of utter bafflement on his face had her hurrying on. "Don't tell me you never noticed it. I'm always wearing it — except for today." Jake gripped her hands. "When I look at you, Torrie, all I can see is the woman I love. If you'd like, I'll buy you a new skirt as soon as you tell me that you'll marry me. Will you?" "Yes. Oh, yes," Torrie said as she threw her arms around him. "There's just one more thing." "What?" Jake asked. "I love you, too," Torrie said. And then Jake was kissing her. She'd tell him all about the skirt later, Torrie decided as her thoughts began to slip away. When they were very old she would tell him about what the island woman had said. It would be the kind of story they could both tell to their grandchildren.
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Roped into Romance by Alison Kent Alison Kent's online read Roped into Romance marks the start of her gIRL-gEAR.com miniseries beginning in Mills & Boon Blaze this month with All Tied Up Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One Lauren Hollister stood beside Macy Webb and followed her best friend's gaze up the exterior of the fourstory, redbrick warehouse recently converted into four spacious lofts. The duo had been searching forever for the perfect place to live. But this didn't look promising. And Lauren said so. "This doesn't look promising." "Uh, hello? We're not going to be living in the chinks between the bricks." Macy reached up a hand to shade her eyes then walked down the sidewalk and cast a glance along the length of the building's back side. "Besides, the facade is being repaired. The scaffoldings are set up over here." "Hmm. He did say not to judge this particular book by its cover." Hard not to, though, since Lauren's degree was in commercial art and she had a critical eye. She glanced at the face of her wristwatch. "He also said he'd meet us here at 3:30." Her cursory building inspection complete, Macy walked back to Lauren's side, reached for her wrist and the watch. "It's 3:27. We're early. He's not late." "Not yet," Lauren said just as a sleek black Jaguar purred around the corner and eased to a stop behind her SUV. She let out a long low whistle. "Okay. I'm impressed. On time and in style." As the car door opened, Macy leaned closer. "I'm beginning to think you ain't seen nothin' yet, sister." Lauren's, "What are you talking about?" died on her lips as Anton Neville stepped from the car. The architect was six foot one or two at least, and had a body to die for. For some reason ? his voice? his demeanor? ? Lauren had assumed from their phone call that he was older. Her father's age maybe. But he wasn't. He couldn't have been more than 30 and he was absolutely gorgeous. His long legs ate up the distance between his car and the sidewalk, long legs displayed to advantage in a pair of tobacco-colored dress pants that were very Versace. His shirt was a lighter shade of camel and his tie a flashy brown print. He was head-to-toe delicious?the head part having snagged Lauren's attention first. Anton Neville was not your average blonde. Both his build and his complexion declared him a swimmer. And then there was the way the sun had bleached his hair. It was long, though not unconventionally so. It was just that she'd never seen curls that were so 100 percent male. Windblown ringlets fell over his forehead, his collar, and his ears. The look was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen, especially when she added in the barely-more-than-stubble length of beard and mustache. But when he took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses?oh, God, she was a goner. "Anton Neville." Blue eyes flashing, he held out a hand. Macy accepted first. "Macy Webb. Thanks for meeting us." And then it was Lauren's turn. "Lauren Hollister," she said as his large hand swallowed her palm and long artist's fingers. She swore his touch had set her belly on fire.
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"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." He slowly pulled his hand from Lauren's and, balling her fingers into a fist that she tucked into her pocket, she said, "No, not at all. You're right on time." "Good." He gestured for them to go ahead, flipping through his ring of keys. "Then let's go check this puppy out." As they made their way up the length of broken pavement to the door, Macy cast a questioning glance at Lauren and mouthed, "You're right on time?" Lauren simply elbowed Macy in the rib cage. "Our contractors have done their best to utilize as many of the original fixtures as possible," Anton was saying, now leading the way down the high-ceilinged hallway that ran the length of the building. He stopped halfway. "Including the freight elevator." Lauren and Macy looked on as he used his security key, releasing a huge red button that protruded from the cinder-block wall. One smack from Anton's broad palm and the heavy steel door rolled up. When he gestured for them to enter, they did, taking the trip to the fourth floor along with the freight car's rattletrap creaks and groans. This still didn't look promising. And so Lauren continued to think until the lift ground to a stop and Anton, again using his security key, shoved the door upward along its overhead tracks and yanked back on the loft's metal privacy grate. At her first sight of the hardwood floor, Lauren changed her mind. She turned and met Macy's wide eyes, seeing the astonished reflection of her own baby blues in her best friend's whiskey-colored gaze. "I don't believe this place." Lauren slipped off her clogs before walking on bare feet into the loft. "Talk about not judging a book by its cover. Crumbling bricks be damned. This floor is absolutely the best." "It smells," Macy said, stepping out of her wedged sandals, "like real wood." "It is real wood." Anton left on his Italian leather loafers. "One hundred percent maple plank. Urethane finish. Definitely shoe-proof. And the building's facade is being repaired. One brick at a time." "I don't care," Lauren said, shaking her head. "I mean, I do care. About the bricks. Not about the floor being shoe-proof. Well, I care about that, too. But I want to experience this with my skin." Macy had already slapped her barefooted way into the center of the loft's main room. "It's a hardwood floor, Lauren. It's not a grassy meadow. It's not Berber carpet. There's not a lot to experience with your skin." "Maybe not with your skin." Lauren closed her eyes, held her shoes wrapped in her arms close to her chest, and flexed her toes against the wood. No one, her best friend included, had ever understood how her body assimilated touch. Her sensitivity had often been a curse. Childhood immunizations? The worst. Eyebrow tweezing? Yikes! Bikini waxes? Forget about it! But, oh, could her sensory feedback be a blessing. The right man and? Shivering, Lauren opened her eyes ? and looked straight into Anton Neville's. They gleamed with speculation. And his irises, wow. That shade of near navy was incredibly rare. She knew he wasn't wearing contacts. Just like she knew, if she had her way, he wasn't going to be wearing anything soon. "Like I said. The best." She flexed her toes again and hoped he bought it. Then took Macy by the hand. "We're going to take a look around." Ankles crossed, hands shoved down in his pockets, Anton leaned back against the edge of the open elevator. "Take your time."
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Ankles crossed, hands shoved down in his pockets, Anton leaned back against the edge of the open elevator. "Take your time." Once she'd dragged Macy out of the main room to the far end of the building, Lauren nearly groaned. "All night wouldn't be enough time. Give me that man and give me forever." "You are such a slut." Lauren grinned, unoffended. She was a sensualist, not a slut. A discriminating one, and Macy knew it. Getting a rise out of each other was tough, but they both loved to try. Having checked a far corner and claimed it as her bedroom, Macy returned to the main room and the area prepped for a kitchen build-out. "Hey. You remember those sculptures we saw in the Sixties Store?" Lauren's eyes widened. "They would make perfect room dividers. You're brilliant, Mace. Five of them, at least. Right here between the kitchen and the center of the loft." Lauren's eyes widened further as she caught sight for the first time of the balcony doors. "C'mon. Let's check out the view." Lauren headed that way. Pulling open the sliding glass door, she slipped on her clogs and stepped outside. "This is so great! Can you imagine a little candlelight, a little wine? A lotta lovin' under the stars? Listening to the traffic below and trying not to get caught?" Lauren hugged her arms around her middle, whirled back to Macy, and said, "I can't wait to try it out!" Only it wasn't Macy standing in the open doorway behind Lauren. It was Anton Neville. And he said, "Neither can I." Chapter Two Anton Neville slumped back in his desk chair. Feet flat on the floor, he swiveled from side to side. He kept a grip on both armrests, kept his gaze on the door. It was after hours; the support staff had long since left for the night. But his partner was due any minute. And he wanted to be here to gloat. Doug Storey, the second half of Neville and Storey, Architects, had made it his personal mission to wash the firm's hands of the loft property Anton had shown yesterday to Macy Webb and Lauren Hollister. And here, with Doug out of town, Anton had done little more than pour on the masculine charm to make the sale. Possible sale, he reminded himself. All the women had done was inspect the property. Twice. But it was the way they'd done their inspection, the decorating plans they made as they walked, the looks they'd tossed back and forth, the whispers and the giggles. Anton had been at this business long enough to know when he could sit back and let a property sell itself. But, for the loft, he'd been ready to wheel and deal his ass off. Still, this was the first time he'd ever considered offering himself as a sales incentive. And he was only half kidding. The other half seriously wondered what would've happened on that balcony had Macy Webb not walked into his tête-à-tête with Lauren Hollister. He didn't think he'd ever hovered on the verge of anything so unprofessional in his entire career. Even if she'd made it more than clear she welcomed his attention, he knew better than to mix business with what he knew would be an unimaginable pleasure.
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Lauren Hollister was a willowy thing, with pale baby blue eyes that promised all the tricks of the female trade. Her body was perfect, beautifully lush curves filling out a slender frame. Dark blond waves fell to the center of her back. And, yeah. He could see himself wrapping that silky mane around his wrist and holding on for the ride. "Hey, Neville. You make us a million while I was gone?" Anton looked up from his musings as his partner walked through the door. The grin that spread over his face felt like the wicked celebration it was. "Close enough. I sold the loft." Doug stopped in his tracks, strands of blond hair falling into his face. He shook them back, tossed his satchel to the office sofa, slammed his hands to his hips. "The downtown loft. The fourth floor. The warehouse. Are you friggin' kidding me?" Anton shrugged. "Maybe not." "Ha!" Doug dropped down on the sofa. "You mean you showed it, not sold it. I'm not paying off any bet until that place goes to closing." "They want it. You know the look." "Hmm." Squaring an ankle on the opposite knee, Doug laced his hands behind his head and leaned back. "They had it outfitted before they even left, didn't they? Curtains, throw pillows, area rugs." "Not these two." Anton couldn't get the picture of Lauren Hollister out of his mind. Her low-slung blue jeans. Her black metallic sheer lace top over a skinny black tank. "Lava lamp bubble sculptures. Hanging panels of hammered brass." "Gay?" "Female. Two." Anton held up two fingers. "Gay?" Doug repeated. "Not these two," Anton repeated, getting to his feet just as his phone rang. He glanced at the display. The number seemed vaguely familiar. He punched the speakerphone button. "Neville." "Anton Neville? This is Lauren Hollister. From yesterday? The balcony?" Anton jerked the receiver from the cradle, ignoring his partner's arched brow and mouthed, "The balcony?" He flipped Doug the finger and turned his attention to the call. "Ms. Hollister. How nice to hear from you." "I wasn't sure what time your office closed. I was hoping I might still be able to catch you. Is this a bad time?" "No. Don't worry about it. I'm usually here this late." This time when Doug rolled his eyes and mouthed, "Bullshit," Anton turned his back on the other man and leaned against the desk. "What can I do for you?" "It's about the loft." He'd figured that much. And the way she said it he figured it was bad news. "Have you and Ms. Webb reached a decision?"
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"Are you kidding? We love it ? ouch!" she cried, mumbling unintelligibly from behind what Anton would guess was a hand over the mouthpiece. "What I mean is, would you have time to let me in to take a few measurements?" "Sure." He turned back around and flipped open his Day-Timer, running a finger down his schedule. "I'm free in the morning at ten, or tomorrow afternoon around, say, two?" "I was thinking about tonight." Anton straightened where he stood. "Tonight?" Doug mouthed, "Tonight?" before tumbling over onto the sofa and muffling his howls with a pillow pressed to his face. "Tonight's not a problem. What time?" "Will nine work for you?" "Perfect. See you then." The call disconnected and Anton returned the receiver to the cradle just as Doug managed to push himself from the sofa to his feet. He crossed the office, planted both hands on the surface of Anton's desk and leaned forward. "Let me guess. Blonde. Blue eyes. Twenty-something. Single. Not gay." "Definitely not gay," Anton said, looking at the plain black face of the watch on his wrist. Doug hung his head. "Does she have a friend?" "Yeah." Anton stuffed his Day-Timer into his satchel, dug in his pocket for the keys to his Jag. "But she's not coming." "Oh, and I suppose you will be." Anton grinned. "You know me all too well, my man." *** oped into Romance "I really hated calling so late, but I am so glad you were available." Tape measure and notebook tucked into her backpack, Lauren stepped from the elevator into the loft. The room was dark, darker than she'd expected, the only light thrown by the moon through the balcony's glass doors. Leaving the grate open, Anton flipped a switch next to the elevator's call button. A row of track lighting above the door threw six spotlights along the hardwood floor. Nice atmosphere, Lauren thought. Not quite as seductive as the moon but, hey. She'd take what she could get. The fact that she'd managed to get him here was a miracle in itself. "Like I told you earlier. It's not a problem." He sounded sincere enough. But Lauren wanted to be sure about that. And about?other things. "I didn't ruin your plans for the evening, did I?" "Nope." He shook his head, the illumination catching the highlights in his hair. "No plans to ruin."
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Lauren so wanted to run her fingers through those curls. She didn't think she'd ever known a guy with hair so tempting to the touch. Smiling, she reached into her backpack for her pencil and spiral pad. "I didn't want your girlfriend coming after me for making a mess of her night." Anton walked toward her then, his eyes glittering, his mouth drawn into a seductive smile. He stopped when he'd drawn within a scant foot. Close enough that her every breath caught his subtle scent. Her heart hammered like a piston in her chest. He took hold of the strap of her overalls, rubbed his thumb in a circle over the copper catch. "No, Lauren. I don't have a girlfriend. Is that what you were wanting to know?" Chapter Three He didn't have a girlfriend! Lauren Hollister thought she might actually jump for joy. "Yes. That's exactly what I wanted to know." She backed a short step away and tried to pretend her skin wasn't tingling where his fingers had grazed her shoulder. "It's a girl thing. We look out for one another. Make sure not to step on toes. Or on boyfriend toes. That sort of thing." One of Anton's blond eyebrows arched. His mouth fought back a grin. "I see." If he did, he would be the first. Men never did get the girlfriend thing. All the rules, and such. Still, she had to be careful. He could be one of those guys who knew a woman was lying simply by taking her pulse. Which he'd no doubt done with his hand so close to her heart. She never had been very good at deception. She was, instead, very good at the truth. And that meant she might run into trouble convincing him she wasn't here to take his measure along with the kitchen's, or to see if her instincts were right. That, yes, her attraction to him was as much about what she saw when she looked into his eyes as when she looked at his body. Call her foolish, but she swore she'd caught a glimpse of awareness that reached deeper than a sexual level. And that possibility, that complex attraction to both mind and matter was what she wanted to explore. She flipped open her notebook and made her way to the space perfectly suited for the bubble sculptures on which she and Macy had their hearts set. "I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight until I found out if the sculptures are going to fit beneath the ductwork. We went by the store earlier today so I know exactly how tall they are." While Lauren continued her decorative chatter, Anton had followed her across the main room. She'd counted each of his footsteps ? she took one and a half to each of his ? and now she felt his body heat behind her. She had to talk herself out of stepping back into his solid male warmth when she so wanted to know what he felt like. Oh, but her imagination was running wild, wanting to experience more of him than she would have time to experience tonight. "Let's see." She dug the measuring tape from her backpack, extended the strip of stiff metal far enough to reach the shiny ventilation system directly overhead. Then she let go of the casing. Gravity slowly pulled it to the floor where it landed with a light thunk. She looked back at Anton and smiled. "And voilà! Exactly?this tall." Anton reached over her shoulder, his large hand taking hold of the metal strip. He nodded toward the floor. "I'll do this part. You get down there and do yours."
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Lauren released the measuring tape and turned beneath his outstretched arm. She had a devil of a time keeping a straight face. Anton wasn't having much better luck ignoring his own timely double entendre. "Just?go. Do. Before I get my other foot stuck in my mouth." With a wink, she dropped to her knees at his feet. Once she noted the distance between floor and ceiling, she sat back on her heels and jotted dimensions into her notebook. "A perfect fit. You can let go now." She made to stand. He made to reach for the tape casing. It was one of those badly timed movie moments where their faces ended up inches apart. She could so easily have kissed him. His lips were so beautifully full and she just knew that the stubble beneath his lower lip would tickle. Imagining the feel of his mouth had kept her tossing and turning a good part of last night. But, as tempting as she found his mouth ? and his everything else, she knew what anticipation added to the sensual equation. She also was quite sure he would be worth the wait. And so she gave him nothing more than a smile before she got back to her feet. He handed her the tape, closing his fingers around her smaller hand. "Did you get what you needed?" "Well, that is certainly a leading question. But, to answer you honestly? No. I didn't. Do you mind?" Pulling out the tape while pulling her hand from his hold, she moved away, motioning for him to step back. "Right there. Stop. How far apart are we?" Looking at her like she was crazy before looking down at the tape in his hand, he answered, "Fifteen feet." "Hmm." Lauren walked toward him, feeding the tape back into the case. "The base of each sculpture is three feet, so that's perfect. Now all we have to figure out is if we can afford to buy five." "You've made up your mind then? About the loft?" "We're getting there. Arguing over a few details still." "And taking measurements just in case?" "Yes. And no." Lauren took a deep breath. Here came the honesty part. "I was also hoping you'd let me buy you dinner." She didn't know why she was nervous. Other than the obvious reason that she rarely invited a virtual stranger to eat. A stranger to whom she found herself so viscerally attracted at that. And so she held her breath. Finally, after what seemed like eternal minutes spent staring into her eyes, his glittering even in the room's dim light, Anton answered. "I don't think I can do that. But I would love to buy dinner for you." Exhaling at last, Lauren grinned. She knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or to trample a male ego. "Great. I'd say I'd get my things ?" she shrugged and held up her backpack "? but this is it." "Vietnamese okay?" "Perfect. I'm famished." Chapter Four
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Anton Neville watched Lauren Hollister slide down the elevator wall until her butt hit the floor. She was wearing a pair of overalls. Micro-mini overalls, if there were such a thing. Which there had to be because he was looking at the evidence. Damn but her legs were long. "You know, you'll never sell this place if you don't get this thing fixed," she said. He moved his gaze to her face. Her eyes were resigned to the wait. Resigned, but definitely not defeated. He liked seeing that spunk. "Does that mean you're backing out of the deal?" Lauren scrunched up her nose, stuck out her tongue, and sighed. Then she sighed again and settled in for the duration, tucking her backpack up under the bend of her knees. Damn but her legs were long. With nowhere to pace, Anton figured he might as well take a load off, as well. He sank to the floor, stretched out his legs, and leaned back on the wall opposite the one against which Lauren had collapsed. Their feet met in the middle and she tapped his sole. "You're going to ruin your pants." He kept his foot pressed to the bottom of hers. "I know a good dry cleaner." "You'd do better knowing a good tailor." "I know one of those, too." "At least you don't know a good girlfriend. I would be in so much trouble if you did." "Why? This wasn't exactly a calculated move to get us alone." He knew it wasn't. She knew it wasn't. But she sure had a guilty look on her face. "This is breaking every rule ever written. A girl does not strand herself with another girl's man." She punctuated that last statement by banging her head on the wall at her back. And then Anton realized he didn't know for sure whether or not he was getting close to trespassing himself. "What about you? Am I going to need to be watching my back when we get out of here?" She shook her head. "Macy's aim's not that good." "Macy?" Uh-uh. No way he had called that one wrong! "Never mind. No. I'm not seeing anyone right now." She dropped her head back in one last thump. Then she smiled to herself, a private inside joke that had her shaking her head and tilting it to the side as she gave him a considering look. "And I've learned my lesson. Next time I want to see someone, I'll call. I'll be direct. I'll do my interior decorating on my own time." Anton wasn't sure, but he thought she'd just said she wanted to see him. His pulse began to do its own thumping. His temperature started to rise. He pointed in the general direction of the loft. "So, all that business about measuring for sculptures..." She nodded. "I really was measuring for sculptures. But I also meant it when I said I was hoping you'd let me buy you dinner."
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Anton had a sudden wish to smash Doug's voice mailbox. "No can do. My rule. No matter who does the asking, I always buy on the first date." Lauren's pursed lips slowly parted as, in a tone both low and lightly suggestive, she asked, "Is this a date?" "It could be." He nodded toward her backpack. "If you have anything to eat in that bag of yours that I can pay you for." Her eyes grew both wide and bright and Anton felt a strange stirring in his gut. An unease that told him he was asking for the sort of trouble that had a good chance of turning his well-ordered life upside down. "Hey, we're in luck. One for each of us. And my treat. None of that macho sexist crap," she added when he reached for his wallet. "We'll call this a first date warm-up if it'll make you happier." From the front compartment, she produced two high-carb energy bars and tossed him one. Then she unzipped the main part of the pack and pulled out a bottle of water. "But the water we'll have to share." The thought of sharing her things, of how many of his things he wouldn't mind if she shared, finally sent him across the elevator car to her side. He sat next to her, his hip at her hip. She offered him the bottle. He pulled up on the sports cap and drank, keeping his gaze locked on hers as he handed it back, as she brought the same spout to her mouth, as she grinned before drinking, giving him a glimpse of the tip of her tongue. He forced himself not to groan when his entire body wanted to scream. "What was it you said yesterday? A little wine? A little candlelight?" he asked. He cast a glance up toward the bare bulb, looked back in time to see her running the drinking spout back and forth over her lower lip. He couldn't stop the sound that seemed to roll straight out of his groin. He reached for the bottle, pulled it from her hand and set it on the floor. She looked from the water bottle back to his face. And then she gave him a soft smile. "That, a lotta lovin', and trying not to get caught." His mouth descended to hers. And she was waiting. She didn't feign surprise or pretend he'd caught her off guard. She was waiting, and she responded with more than her lips and her tongue, threading her fingers into his hair and holding him close. He swore she smiled. Her lips slanted over his, even while lifting upward. Nothing had ever aroused him so quickly. Like the head of a match, he burst into flame. And this was only a kiss. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, holding her close while he nipped at her lips, while he tasted her mouth, while he slipped his tongue up the length of hers and told her with the kiss what he wanted to do to her body. To penetrate her slowly, to slide his sex into hers the way he'd taken her mouth. He wanted to feel her skin with his skin. Her mouth was soft, and the hair trapped beneath his palm slid over her nape like pure silk. His imagination already had her undressed and naked beneath him. This time when he groaned, he knew she felt the echo in her mouth. And when she whimpered in return, the sound turned him inside out. He pulled his mouth free, his hand holding the back of her head as he stared into her eyes. So bright and so blue and so beautifully beguiled. She'd caught her lower lip between her teeth, then bathed it with her tongue, whether savoring his taste or healing the skin roughened by his whiskers, he didn't know. He didn't care. He wanted her. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted any other woman.
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And he wanted her now. Chapter Five Lauren Hollister hadn?t known a man could kiss the way Anton Neville kissed. His hair was the texture of the softest silk, gossamer curls in her hands. His hand at her nape was insistent, his mouth on hers demanding. And she?d thought she?d known exactly what to expect from a man. But she didn't. She'd never been looked at the way he was looking at her now. His eyes already had her undressed and she reveled in the exposure. She returned the look because she wanted to see his body, as well. To touch him. To explore and discover what spots made him shudder, which ones made him groan. Whether he liked gentle strokes of fingers or sharp nips of teeth. She pulled his head down to hers to get her fill of his taste. He allowed her one kiss and then he shook his head, telling her with his eyes that kissing wasn?t enough. He wanted more. He wanted it all. When his hand moved from her neck to the shoulder strap of her overalls, she let her head fall back against the wall, let her hands fall to her lap. Her chest lifted and fell as she struggled to breathe. She watched his fingers work free first one loop then the second, separating the hardware from the tack button and lowering the bib so that her overalls bunched at her hips. She wore a simple skinny white T-shirt beneath and had to stop herself from pulling it off over her head. As much as she wanted to have his hands on her body, she wanted to enjoy the anticipation. And she knew without a doubt that Anton wanted to unwrap her himself. He did, lifting her shirt hem above her bare breasts. Lauren shivered, her nipples pebbling. Anton covered her with his hands, then with his mouth, leaning down to curl his tongue around first one taut peak then the other. His hair slid over her skin like skeins of silk; his hands skated over her rib cage, the heels of his palms pressing the sides of her breasts. She wasn't sure anything had ever so thoroughly roused her skin's sensitivity, or that any man's touch had ever felt so right, so loving. None of this made any sense. She hardly knew him, yet felt as if she'd known him forever. And when his hands made their way to her thighs, she let him have his way. He looked up from beneath long blond lashes, his eyes flashing, the corners of his mouth lifted in a suggestive grin. "Spread your legs," he said and she did, opening to his determined search for her body's secrets. He pressed fingertips into her bare inner thighs, opening her further until he could easily slip a hand beneath the leg of her overalls. Lauren pulled in a sharp breath. His hand was hot where he skimmed her most intimate skin. "Are you okay?" he asked and all she could say was, "Oh, yeah." At that, he chuckled, a sexy half laugh, half moan that told of his struggle for self-control. This time it was her turn to ask of him, "Are you okay?" "Baby, you have no idea." And then he brushed the backs of his knuckles over the crotch of her tiny bikini panties, leaning forward to murmur against her lips, "I'll stop. Just say the word." "Don't stop." Her body was coming apart and he'd barely done more than tease her with the promise of his touch. She had never, never, never felt so close to falling from contact that was only a whisper. But she was, and this was what she wanted. She told him so with her lashes that slowly lowered, with her hungry tongue she caught with her teeth after begging, "Please. Don't stop." But he did, pulling his hand free as he scooted to sit cross-legged in front of her and lift her legs over his. She stared into his eyes, heavy-lidded and aroused. He was as affected as she was, as taken by storm. Like her, he hadn't expected the intensity of this tryst.
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And, though she'd immediately known he was special, she hadn't considered anything as crazy as love at first sight. She couldn't. For so many reasons, she couldn't. She pushed the thoughts aside and focused on this moment, this man. Concentrating on his hands sliding up her inner thighs, on his thumbs flirting with the hem of her shorts before slipping beneath to flirt with both sides of her lace-edged panties. He used one hand to pull the wisp of fabric away from her body, giving his other hand room to slip beneath, to touch her intimately, his fingers teasing through her folds, over her tight bud of nerves, before he circled the mouth of her sex and eased a finger inside. Lauren gasped but refused to look away from his face. Even as he began to stroke, to simulate the motion she wanted from his body, even as he moved his thumb to tease at the hard knot of sensation aching for release, she maintained the contact with his eyes. Only when he lowered his head and returned his attention to her breasts did she sag against the wall and allow passion to take over. No man had ever been so focused on her pleasure. His tongue lapped and his thumb played and his fingers worked in and out of her sex until she couldn't stand it anymore. She cried out, she shuddered, she ground her body down into his loving hand. He continued the rhythm, seeing to her finish and easing her slowly back down. Only then did he leave her body, adjusting her panties and tugging her shirt back into place. She waited for a moment, smiling, expecting him to reach for his belt and the fastenings of his pants so she could return the favor. But he only ran a caressing hand down her face to her neck and leaned forward for a too brief kiss. Lauren frowned. This wasn't right. "What about you?" she asked. He shook his head. "I'm fine. I wanted to do this for you." No. This was all wrong. She wasn't going to let him think that she didn't want to give back. And so she got to her feet, pushed her overalls down over her hips and kicked them off. Anton's eyes flared as, sitting beneath her, he took in her legs, her bare belly, the tiny slip of sheer mesh that served as her panties. "Thank you. Now, please. Let me." She held out her hand and, when he took it, she urged him to his feet and went to work loosening his tie and the buttons of his shirt. He stopped her hands, holding them to his chest in his much larger fists. He captured her attention with a strange look of resignation before saying, "You don't owe me, or need to pay me back. I don't expect that from any woman." For several long seconds, all Lauren could do was blink before she managed to wrench her hands free from his and shove them at her hips. "What? Was this some kind of test? You wanted to see how far I'd actually go? If I was all talk and no action? Is that it?" He didn't answer. He only continued to study her face until she wanted to pull out her hair in frustration and scream. Why did men have to have such double standards? Why couldn't they believe that good girls could love sex, too? She asked her next question with all the calm she could muster. It wasn't much considering she was close to seething inside. "Well, tell me then. Did I pass?" Chapter Six Anton groaned. He had a gorgeous, responsive woman staring up at him as though he were some kind of devil, when all he'd been trying to do was let her off the hook.
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He'd known too many females who took the pleasure he gave them, then offered him the same as an afterthought, as a token payment, always out of obligation and never from the heart. He was getting older and more discriminating. He wanted a woman to want him, not to feel obliged to leave him a tip in exchange for services rendered. But he was afraid he'd just made a big mistake with Lauren Hollister. Rather than the glow of her previous expression replete with satisfaction, she now looked ready to bite his head off. He didn't get it. He didn't get this woman at all. But, then, he didn't really know her, yet, did he? "No, Lauren. This wasn't a test." How was he supposed to explain this from his point of view without leaving her insulted? "It was unexpected and it was amazing. You're amazing. I loved seeing you come." She was still breathing fire. "Oh, so you'd rather watch, is that it?" He tried to hold back a smile. "I do like to watch. But I'd much rather do." A faint blush crept up her neck. "You just don't want to do me. I'm too easy. You like more of a challenge. Where have I heard that before?" He tossed his head back and roared. "You are not too easy, but you are making me crazy. I want to make love to you more than anything and I'm about to tie my hands behind my back to keep them to myself. If that's not a challenge, I don't know what is." "Then, why ?" He backed her up, planted his hands flat against the elevator wall above her shoulders as he looked down into her upturned face. He had a number of logistical reasons, not the least of which was the lack of a single comfortable amenity, but he gave her the most obvious. "I don't have a condom."She blinked, registering his response before her mouth broke into a self-satisfied grin. Reaching down for her backpack, she rummaged inside and produced a foil packet he wished he'd had 10 minutes ago. "Why didn't you say so?" she asked just as his cell phone started to ring. This time it was Lauren who growled before hanging her head. Anton knew the mood would not be easily recaptured. As much as he wanted to bury himself in her warmly receptive body, he reached for the phone instead. "Neville." "Hey, buddy. Wanna go double or nothing?" his partner, Doug Storey, asked. "You are never going to dump that dump at this rate." "I wouldn't be so sure," Anton answered, keeping an eye on Lauren as she slipped back into her overalls and swiped the elevator dirt off her backside. "Where the hell are you, anyway?" "Downstairs with the elevator crew and your Ms. Hollister's roommate." Doug lowered his voice. "You two might want to get your story straight. Looks like you'll be outta there in a few." "Thanks, bud." Anton ended the call, returned the phone to his pocket and took great pleasure in watching Lauren run a brush through her hair. Then she straightened her clothing, smoothing down her T-shirt, as well as the legs of her shorts. Once she'd finished, he held out his hand. "You want my hairbrush?" she asked. He shook his head. The elevator jerked to a start and he knew he didn't have much time. "I want the condom."She swung the backpack strap up onto one shoulder. One eyebrow lifted as she gave him a haughty look. "What, you don't have a supply of your own at home?"
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"I do." He wanted to make it clear that her assumptions had been wrong. That he didn't think her too easy. Her expression told him she wasn't convinced. But the problem was more complicated than he could get into with only two floors left to descend. The rest of what he wanted to say would have to wait. The elevator groaned and creaked and finally hit the ground floor. Anton continued to hold out his hand. Lauren continued to consider him with her worldly eyes. Finally, just as the overhead door began rolling up along its tracks, she slapped the condom into his palm. He closed his fingers around hers and around the foil packet, only letting her go when she insisted. The condom he tucked into his pocket, holding it tight in his fist. "I'm going to hold on to this. And I'm going to call you and invite you to dinner. A real dinner. A real date. Next time, and there will be a next time, I don't want to be caught with my pants?up." *** "Why do I ever believe a man when he tells me he's going to call?" Three days had passed since Lauren and Anton's elevator adventure and she was not a happy camper as she paced back and forth in her best friend's gIRL-gEAR office. Macy Webb sat cross-legged behind her desk in a chair that seemed to swallow her diminutive form. She'd been working on copy for her gIRL gUIDE column when Lauren took over the office with her ranting and raving about men. "C'mon, Lauren. It's been three days, not three weeks. And not the three months you're acting like. If he calls, he calls. If you can't wait, call him. It's not a crime, you know." Lauren stopped pacing and collapsed into one of Macy's visitor's chairs. She rubbed her fingers to the headache building in her temples. "I can't call him. I can't explain. But I think he's sorta old-fashioned about wanting to be the one to do the calling and the paying. Stuff like that." Macy leaned across her desk. "Yoo-hoo. Lauren? Since when do you do old-fashioned? Waiting for the man to call? Letting the man pay? Don't you think you're borrowing trouble here when there are about a bazillion men out there who wouldn't think twice about you calling or paying? Especially the paying part." Lauren sighed, dropped her head back against the headrest and stared up at the ceiling. Macy was probably right. Lauren knew she wouldn't be able to deal with having a man call all the relationship shots. Anton Neville seemed the type who got off on being in charge. He'd certainly been in charge of their elevator date, hadn't he? What kind of guy said no to sex, anyway? And why was she even thinking about seeing a guy who did, again? Chapter Seven "I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you. All hell's broken loose at the office. Doug and I have hit a streak of bad contractor luck lately. Not to mention clients who can't make up their minds." Sitting across from Anton Neville in the restaurant known to serve Houston's best Vietnamese cuisine, Lauren Hollister listened to his architectural woes. The last part, about clients being unable to make up their minds, had her rolling her eyes. "Is that what this is? A business dinner to talk about the loft? You're wanting to know what Macy and I have decided?" She didn't know why she'd gotten her hopes up otherwise. But she had. She liked him a lot and hated that they might actually be facing a problem as out-of-date as equality of the sexes.
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Anton laid his chopsticks on his plate, propped his elbows on the edge of the table and laced his fingers, looking at her over his joined hands. His blue eyes were brighter than she remembered from the dim elevator and lit with an intensity that would've stolen her appetite if she'd thought it was intended for her. But she didn't. "If this was a business dinner, this conversation would be business specific," he said. "As in, what build-outs you've decided on. If you want us to arrange them, if you plan to hire your own contractors. Or if you've even decided whether you want the loft at all." "So, that wasn't a dig? That comment about clients making up their minds? Because we have. We do want the loft." Why, oh why did he have to look even yummier than her spring rolls? All dressed up in the dark browns and greens that did such amazing things to his coloring? "Good." He picked up his chopsticks and dug into his steamed rice. "Now, can we get back to the date? I promised you a good time and I intend to see that it happens." Yeah, his idea of a good time, Lauren silently groused. He wanted to call, he wanted to pay. He wanted to coordinate the when, where, and how of any sexual encounter. And now he wanted to be in charge of what they talked about. Typical overbearing man. She had a feeling that she was going to miss out on experiencing his good qualities because his bad ones so got on her nerves. True, some women did like sitting high atop a pedestal, safe from problems, decisions, and sin. He couldn't know that she hated looking down at the action. That she thought duking it out eye-to-eye was a much more honorable way to live. Not to mention a helluva lot more fun. "Did you bring our condom?" "As a matter of fact, I did." His lips drew taut, almost into a grimace as he dug his wallet from the back pocket of his chocolate-colored pants. "Did you want it back?" Still holding her chopsticks, Lauren slumped back hard in her chair, her hand on the napkin draped over her crossed legs. "Oh. Now you've changed your mind." Anton leaned into the forearm he'd braced on the table and reached for his beer. He took a drink from the longneck, keeping his gaze locked with Lauren's as he did. "Can I ask you something Lauren? Do you want to be here with me? Or did you feel indebted to go out with me because of what went on in the elevator?" Indebted was the last thing she felt. But she could understand where he was coming from, considering the way she was acting. Time to stop dancing around the ring and take it on the chin. Returning her chopsticks to the table, she smoothed down her simple salmon-colored skirt. She tried to smile but, since the feeling failed to reach her heart, was afraid she wasn't very convincing. "I'm sorry. I just don't think this is going to work." Anton blew out a huff, as if he'd been anticipating her decision. "You're calling this off before we've even gotten to know each other?" She was calling it off before she was in over her head and ended up being hurt. "I think I make you uncomfortable. And that makes me uncomfortable." He frowned. "Why would you make me uncomfortable?" "Because I am who I am. I say what I think. I go after what I want. I play by my rules and I'm afraid that might cause me to inadvertently step on your more traditional toes." There. She didn't think she could be more honest without telling him he needed to loosen up.
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"My toes are traditional?" he asked, a small quirk to the corner of his mouth. This time her response was genuine. She felt her own smile work the muscles of her face. His smile she felt other places and she held the feeling close. She wanted to feel so much more, but they seemed to be coming from two disparate places. "Since I haven't seen them yet, I can't say for sure. But I'm leaning in that direction." "What do you want me to do with this?" He held the condom he'd pulled from his wallet between two fingers. Lauren felt a flush heat her cheeks. She might be the more free-spirited of the two, but even she didn't want an entire restaurant wondering if they were in for a show. She took the foil packet from his hand and tucked it down in the low-draped cowl bodice of her sleeveless white blouse. "I'll hang on to it. Just in case." One blond eyebrow went up. "Just in case you change your mind?" She shook her head. "In case you come to your senses and realize that you don't have to be the one on top to have a good time." *** Lauren and Macy finalized the deal on the loft not long after. Doug Storey represented the firm of Neville and Storey, Architects at the closing. He explained that neither he nor Anton usually handled the financial end of any property they sold. But the loft space had been an anomaly since they'd acquired it and they'd sworn to see its sale through to the end. Lauren couldn't have cared less who showed up. She and Macy had found the perfect place to live and nothing else mattered. And Lauren told her best friend that very thing. "Oh, that's a bunch of crap, Lauren," Macy said, her head next to Lauren's as they lay side by side on the hardwood floor of the loft's main room. Feet pointing opposite directions, they stared up at the exposed piping Lauren had decided to paint red, purple and green. "You wanted Anton there and you know it. You may not have said so, but you wore a business suit to the closing, for chrissakes." "It was an important occasion and I dressed accordingly." "You dressed like you thought Mr. Uptight would want you to dress." "That's not true. He is not uptight. He's just?traditional." Macy snorted. "Traditional, my ass. He's a stick in the mud. Face it." Anton Neville was anything but a stick in the mud. He was a veritable god. Seeing to her pleasure? Without expecting anything in return? Had she ever known a man so unselfish? So considerate? So incredibly kind and thoughtful? And did she mention hot? Lauren groaned. She'd been so worried about her precious equality that she'd told him it wasn't going to work before they'd gotten to know each other. Now she was afraid she'd thrown away the best thing to ever happen in her life. Chapter Eight "So, you're going to go? After all that bitching about your date with the man, after the way he dumped on you at the closing, you're still going to go?"
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Macy Webb stood in Lauren Hollister's bedroom doorway, watching as Lauren settled on a periwinkle suede fringed skirt and a silver silk corset that left the biggest part of her assets bare. She left her legs bare, as well, and slipped her feet into a pair of easily slipped-out-of periwinkle blue mules. "And that's what you're going to wear?" Both of Macy's eyebrows went up. "What happened to conventional and old-fashioned?" They'd closed on the loft yesterday. And they needed to get busy packing. But Anton Neville had called and asked Lauren to meet him at the loft. Alone. Tonight. At nine. Lauren turned side to side and examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. With this outfit and her hair in a wispy knot on top of her head, she looked hot, if she did say so herself. "Yes, this is what I'm going to wear. Anton Neville can take conventional and old-fashioned and shove it. He wants to see me? He's going to see me." "A whole lot of you, in that outfit," Macy added. "What's wrong with that? I'm a fun, fearless female. Screw him if he doesn't like it." Lauren only hoped she could keep up the charade. Her insides were melting like butter and she was afraid if he came too close she'd pour herself all over him. Equality be damned. He was sexy as hell, both his mind and his body. The combination was an incredible turn-on. More than that, however, the combination had captured her heart. She only hoped she hadn't messed things up forever the day she'd walked away. Macy gave a quick nod. "Looking like that? I'd say screwing is a definite possibility." *** Anton stood on the loft's balcony, leaning against the railing as he watched the taillights of the traffic four stories below. He was waiting for Lauren and he wasn't sure he wouldn't still be waiting come morning. She'd vaguely agreed to meet him, as long as nothing else came up, or so she'd said. He still had a key and he'd let himself in. He didn't think Lauren would mind, if she showed up and if she hadn't already written him off. He wanted to give this a go. If he had to rein in his insistence on having things his way, he'd give it his best shot. Lauren Hollister was too special not to work out a compromise. He heard the newly installed elevator motor engage and his heart flipped in his chest. He glanced quickly around the balcony, where he'd set up a chaise longue with a coverlet and pillows. On the table beside, candles still burned. The wine was chilled. He wondered if Lauren had brought the condom. He had others, of course, but there was something about that particular one?. "Anton?" she called. Even the way she said his name was enough to make him weak in the knees. "Out here. On the balcony." He'd left the sliding glass doors open and now he leaned his backside against the railing and turned to face the darkened loft. He heard her footsteps as she made her way across the floor. He couldn't see her, but he knew she could see him. He wasn't sure he'd ever had so much trouble drawing a breath. His heart thumped furiously in his chest. And when she finally reached the doorway, a vision of glittering silvers and blues, he knew he was in more trouble than he'd ever imagined possible.
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"Hi," she said and stepped outside into his world. She glanced around and, even with nothing more than the light from the moon, he knew she could see the romantic stage he'd set. She grinned and Anton held his breath, hoping she wasn't about to laugh at his plans for seduction. She did laugh, but it was the purest sound of joy, a filling of her soul with the moment, and happiness spilling like bubbling champagne and? God, but he needed to be committed, writing poetry in his mind instead of talking to the flesh-and-blood woman holding his heart in her hand. "I can't believe you. I can't believe this." She pressed her fingers to her lips as she circled the chaise longue, plumping the pillows and running her palm over the coverlet. He remained standing with his arms crossed and his ankles crossed because he still wasn't sure if her disbelief was a good thing or bad. But then she made her way back to where he stood. She took him by the hand, guided him to the chaise and, with a palm planted in the center of his chest, forced him to sit. "You did good. The candles and the wine. There's even traffic down below. And there's always the possibility of getting caught. We're only missing one thing." "The condom," he stated, his palms growing damp. Nodding, she planted her hands at her waist. "Find it and you get that whole lotta lovin'." Hands shaking, he started with the tiny silver hooks holding the corset together. The front separated and fell to the ground, revealing nothing but bare skin from her tiny waist to her beautifully long neck. Pressing his lips between her breasts and breathing deep of her softly scented skin, he skimmed his hands around her hips, finding the skirt's rear zipper and easing it down. One smooth tug and it fell to her feet, leaving her standing in a wisp of sheer silver mesh. The condom was caught between the elastic and her skin. He stripped her free of both, leaving her standing bare before him. He took a deep breath, struggling for control, even as Lauren urged him to his feet. "My turn." She tugged his shirt from his pants, releasing the buttons from bottom to top as he got busy with his cuffs. By the time he was out of his shirt and his shoes, he was so hard he thought he might burst. And then Lauren went to work on his belt and his pants. "Careful," he whispered, as she eased his zipper over his erection. At the bold touch of her fingertips, he released a gut-deep groan, groaning again as she shoved his pants and his briefs to his ankles. He kicked them aside and she dropped to sit on the lounger, patting the seat for the condom and smiling when she found her prize. Taking his penis into her mouth, playing the ridge of his head with her tongue, she used nimble fingers to rip into the foil packet. Anton gritted his teeth and threaded his fingers into her hair. When she sheathed him, he was more than ready. He lowered them both down to the cushion, covering her with his body. She opened her legs, taking his weight and accepting him deep inside. He shuddered. She shuddered. Her warmth enveloped him; her wetness welcomed him and he knew he'd found a place to call home. "I want to ask you something," he said, knowing they had so much to talk about, so much to settle. Knowing, too, that time would come but, for now, this was what mattered.
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"Anything." "Do you believe in love at first sight?" She lifted her hand and cupped his face. "Yes. I do. And, yes. I did." Her words slowly brought their sensuous dance to a stop. He turned his lips toward her palm for a kiss, his eyes maintaining contact with hers that shimmered by the light of the moon and the softly glowing candles. Reaching for the coverlet, he pulled it up until they lay enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and romance. He didn't think making love had ever felt so right. Had ever resonated with so much emotion. Her heart snared his, as did her eyes. And her body held him tightly in her intimate embrace. He began to move again, trying to take his time. But holding back quickly became impossible. His body ached with the need for release. Lauren's eyes gave him permission to come, promising she'd stay with him every second of the ride. He picked up the pace, harder, faster, meeting each upward thrust of her hips with a powerful downward stroke. Seconds later, she cried out, a soft gasp, a sweetly unexpected catch of breath as she shuddered beneath him. Her completion sent him over the edge. His body clenched and he groaned, his climax exploding through him in one final driving burst. He buried his face in her hair, holding his weight on his elbows braced above her head, feeling for the first time in his life like he'd never recover. And loving the feeling of being in love. Finally, he raised his head and looked down into her smiling eyes. "So, about that love at first sight thing? Are you sure?" Lauren gave a quick little nod. "I wouldn't be down here naked beneath your godlike body otherwise." When he raised an eyebrow, she added a small shrug and said, "Hey, it sounded good anyway." "Uh-huh. I thought so." He brushed hair back from her forehead, loving her sense of humor yet knowing this one thing, at least for him, couldn't wait. "I can be as cynical as anyone, Lauren, and I've always believed in love. I just never expected to be hit ?" "Shh." She placed her fingers to his lips. "I promise. Next time I won't hit you." "That's what I wanted to know. About next time. That there will be one." He knew she had to feel his heart racing, his chest pressed to hers as it was. "Maybe one or two." And then she smiled. A smile that touched him where a woman had never touched him before. Where he knew no other woman would touch him again. "One or two? Is that all?" "Or however many times we can squeeze into the next 40 years," she added, pulling his head down for the sweetest imaginable kiss.
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OUTLAW HEARTS by ELIZABETH LANE Since the death of her husband, Amelia Gray has been struggling to hold on to the homestead the two of them carved out of the northern Colorado foothills. She is determined to build a life for herself, even though the local sheriff, Cam Bartlett, seems to have plans of his own for her future. When Amelia finds a gravely wounded Heath O'Connor in her barn, she is more concerned with tending him than she is for her own safety — can she believe the stranger's promise that he won't harm her? When Cam shows up on the trail of a fugitive that fits Heath's description, Amelia must decide whether to turn the man over to the law, or hide him until his wounds heal...
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| CHAPTER ONE Colorado, 1870 When Amelia Gray stepped into the barn, the first thing she noticed was a thin trail of blood. The fresh red drops spilled across the floor like a broken string of garnet beads, leading from the doorway to a pile of straw in one shadowed corner. Alone and armed with nothing but a milk bucket Amelia stared at the crimson spatters. She knew she should turn around and run — flee to the house, bar the door, and snatch up her late husband's shotgun from its hook beside the fireplace. But a sense of urgency drove her forward. Something — or someone — was hurt and needed her help. She almost tripped over the half-buried foot before she saw it. The worn military boot clearly belonged to a man — a man who did not appear to be moving. From the looks of things, he'd just had time to burrow into the straw before passing out. Or dying. Heart pounding, Amelia dropped the bucket to one side and began pulling away the straw that covered the man's inert body. He was lying on his back, his long, muscular legs clad in faded U.S. Cavalry breeches. His flesh was warm and hard through the weathered fabric, but he did not even twitch as her hand brushed his thigh. Amelia could hear her own taut breathing as she worked her way higher. Now she could see that the stranger was not wearing a gun belt. His dark brown shirt was not military issue. Not a soldier, then. But possibly a deserter — and deserters could be dangerous. Her heart crept into her throat as she uncovered the ugly gunshot wound in his left shoulder. It was still bleeding, bright crimson soaking his shirt and pooling in the straw below. Would a dead man bleed like that? Amelia held her breath as she uncovered his face — a strong, tanned face that was more rugged than handsome, framed by tousled coal-black hair with a few threads of silver at the temples. Was he alive? Amelia leaned over him and laid her ear lightly against his chest to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. She pressed closer — only to freeze in sudden terror as a viselike hand clamped around her wrist. "Not a sound, lady, or I'll break this pretty arm of yours." The male voice that rasped in her ear was gruff with pain. She bit back a cry as the strong hand twisted her arm behind her back. "You're...hurting...me," she whispered, battling terror. "Stop it right now if you want my help. Otherwise, I'll leave you here to bleed to death!" She shifted her weight toward his wounded shoulder. He cursed under his breath, releasing her arm and allowing her to pull away. "That's better." Amelia spoke boldly, knowing that whoever this man might be, she could not let him know how afraid she was. "Now tell me who you are and how you came to be here, wounded and in my barn!"
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The blue eyes that gazed up at her swam with pain. "Major Heath O'Connor..." he muttered through clenched teeth. "At least that's who I used to be. If you want to hear the rest, I'll tell you while you fish the bullet out of this damned...shoulder." He struggled to sit up, then sagged back into the straw. "I can't clean your wound out here. We've got to get you into the house." Amelia thrust herself beneath his uninjured arm. His body was solid against her, all muscle and sinew, but he barely had the strength to rise. He leaned heavily on her as they pushed upward, swaying and staggering until he gained his feet. But the battle was far from over. Dizzy from blood loss, he clutched her in his arms. His head sagged against her breasts as she fought to keep him on his feet. "Nice the way you smell..." he murmured groggily. "Like wild roses. What's your name, pretty lady?" "My name is Amelia, and you're out of your head. Come on, you've got to keep walking. If you pass out I won't be able to get you inside." A shudder passed through his body as he forced himself erect. "I won't hurt you, Amelia," he said. "Please believe that." Was he babbling again? Amelia clutched his ribs to keep him from collapsing. His woollen shirt smelled of sagebrush and damp earth. How far had he crawled to find her barn? Who had put that bullet in his shoulder? One step...another. He sagged against her, their contact strangely intimate. No man had touched her in the eight months since John, her husband, had died in a landslide. Now, this wounded stranger's nearness triggered responses she had all but forgotten. Amelia struggled to ignore the tingling heat that arose from the contact of their bodies. Heath O'Connor had promised he wouldn't hurt her. But he was clearly a dangerous man. She would be a fool to trust him. They reached the back stoop of the small clapboard farmhouse. Amelia pulled the door open and guided his stumbling feet across the threshold. By now he was barely conscious. He sagged against her, his weight threatening to drag them both to the floor. The strain of so much movement had made the bleeding worse. Pausing, she braced him against the cupboard. Her free hand fumbled for a clean towel and stuffed it against the wound. The pressure helped stanch the blood, but she knew it would not be enough. He needed to lie down, and there was only one place where his big, rawboned frame would fit. Dizzy with effort, she dragged him into the bedroom. The foot of the bed was only a lunge away. He collapsed on it, pushing her down onto the patchwork quilt. She lay beneath him, trapped by his dead weight. "Let me up," she muttered, pushing against his chest. His only response was an incoherent moan. A sharp rap on the front door galvanized her to action. Thank heaven, help was here — if only she could get free before her visitor gave up and went away. Summoning the last of her strength, she twisted out from under Heath O'Connor's body, rolled off the bed, and staggered to her feet. "Amelia! Are you there? Are you all right?" The voice was all too familiar. Amelia closed the bedroom door and took a few precious seconds to rearrange her clothes and smooth her hair. Then she hurried into the parlor and opened the front door. Sheriff Cam Bartlett stepped into the room as if he owned it. A look of concern crossed his handsome face as his eyes took in Amelia's rumpled gown and flushed cheeks. "Thank heaven, you're all right!" he exclaimed. "I was escorting a prisoner to trial, and he got away from me. I trailed him this way. He was wounded, so he couldn't have gotten far. I was afraid he might try to hole up here." His eyes flickered possessively over Amelia's face and body. "Afraid for you." "I've got John's old shotgun and I know how to use it," Amelia said. "I can take care of myself." "Maybe," Cam grunted. "But if you run across a black-haired stranger, don't take any chances with him. The man's a cold-blooded murderer. Two nights ago, in his hotel room, he strangled Molly Mae Spangler to death." CHAPTER TWO
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"Molly's dead?" Amelia stared up at Cam in disbelief. Everyone in Bramble Creek knew the pretty, darkhaired girl who'd worked at the Irish Rose Saloon. Few people had approved of the way Molly made her living, but surely no one had reason to kill her. Except, perhaps, a stranger. A dangerous stranger with his own hidden purpose. I won't hurt you, Amelia. Please believe that. Heath O'Connor's words echoed in her mind. Was the man really a killer or was this all some ghastly mistake? "You look pale," Cam said, taking a step closer. "Is something wrong, darlin'?" "It's just the shock. Molly was a sweet girl, for all her wild ways." Amelia inched backward, keeping the distance between them. "Are you sure this man killed her? Were there any witnesses?" "Caught the bastard red-handed myself. I was downstairs in the hotel bar when someone reported a ruckus upstairs. I kicked open the door and there he was, standing over the bed. Molly was on it, dead as a doornail. Damn fool didn't even resist arrest. Just stood there and let me cuff him while Bart Wilson held the gun." I won't hurt you, Amelia. The words remained, even when she tried to will them away. "You said he was wounded." Cam nodded. "Happened early this morning on the road. My horse picked up a stone, and when I stopped to check it, the bastard jumped me. He got the keys out of my pocket, but I rolled away and drew before he could get the pistol. That was when he jumped into a dry ravine and I lost him in the scrub." "So you shot him as he was running away from you," Amelia said. "Had to. He was a murderer and a fugitive from justice. Got him, too. Found blood on the bushes before I lost the trail in the willows along the creek." "Then maybe you'd better keep after him. Go on. I'll be fine here." Amelia felt her stomach clench as she realized what she had just said. It made all the sense in the world to tell Cam his escaped prisoner was here — but she had always trusted her instincts. And her instincts told her she needed to hear Heath O'Connor's side of the story before she decided what to do next. Apprehension swept over her as she watched Cam ride away. In aiding this fugitive, she had crossed an invisible line. She, too, was now acting on the wrong side of the law. Trembling, she closed the front door and bolted it from the inside. What if her intuition was wrong this time? What if Heath was nothing but a handsome, charming killer who preyed on vulnerable women? After all, Molly had died in his bed. She would be a fool to lower her guard with him. Taking the shotgun down from its rack, she checked to make sure both barrels were loaded. It was an awkward weapon at close range, but it was all she had. She cocked it and, with her finger resting lightly on one trigger, she walked back to the bedroom and opened the door. Heath had managed to turn over onto his back. He lay there watching her with hooded eyes, one hand pressing the towel against his wounded shoulder. "So, are you going to shoot me, too?" he muttered, eyeing the shotgun. "I just might, unless I get some fast answers. You heard what was said in there?" "All of it. Including the darlin' part. Just my rotten luck to run into the sheriff's woman."
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Amelia shot him a glare. "If I were his woman, I would have told him you were here." "So why didn't you?" "Maybe I wanted to hear your side of the story first." A spasm of pain rippled across Heath's face. "Then maybe you ought to put that damned bird gun away and do something about this bullet in my shoulder." Amelia hesitated, then slowly lowered the heavy gun. Heath was in no condition to harm her, she reminded herself, especially not when he needed her help. Hurrying back to the kitchen she rummaged for some forceps — the ones her husband had used for doctoring animals would do — a knife, some clean rags and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Returning to the bedroom, she saw that he was already fading. His eyes were glazed, his face ashen. There was no time to lose. "Let's get rid of that shirt," she said. "I've got others. My husband was about your size." "Was?" He mumbled the question, slipping into the fog of his pain. "Then you're a widow lady...such a beautiful widow lady…" He sank back into the pillow and allowed Amelia to unbutton his damp, muddy shirt. His chest was hard and muscular beneath. A dusting of black hair narrowed to form a dark downward path that disappeared into the waist of his trousers. Steeling herself against his nearness, Amelia slipped the shirt off his uninjured arm and worked it around his back. He moaned softly as her breast brushed his cheek. Damp heat flooded her body. Struggling to ignore it, she eased the shirt over his wound, slipped it off and dropped it on the floor. Then she opened the whiskey bottle and held it to his lips. He took a single deep swallow. A shudder passed through him as he opened his eyes and looked directly up at her. "I didn't kill Molly," he said. "You've got to believe that." "Then what was she doing in your bed?" Amelia soaked a rag with whiskey and began cleaning around the ugly wound. "Were you one of her customers?" "Lord, no!" He winced as the alcohol stung his raw flesh. "Then what was she doing in your room?" She held the end of the forceps in the flame of a candle she'd lit for that purpose. "And how did she end up dead?" He muttered something she could not understand, and Amelia realized he was slipping away from her again. Thrusting the knife's leather sheath between his jaws, she began probing for the bullet. As the tip of the forceps touched lead, Heath moaned again and passed into unconsciousness. Fifteen minutes later, Amelia had finished her work. Heath lay bandaged on her bed, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. He would be all right, she concluded, but he needed rest. Amelia leaned back against the wall, watching him. Could she believe what Heath had told her, or was he a liar as well as a murderer? Either way, she had to know. There had been another witness to Heath's arrest, she reminded herself. Cam's deputy, Bart Wilson, was her nearest neighbor. He would be honest enough to tell her exactly what he had seen last night. She would be wise to talk to him as soon as possible. Still pondering, Amelia reached for the shirt she had dropped on the floor. She would burn it, she resolved. It would be one less piece of evidence that Heath had been here. As she picked up the shirt, something fell out of the pocket and landed on the floor with a metallic clink. Startled, she picked it up. It was a small, heart-shaped silver locket. Amelia's fingers shook as she pressed
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the tiny clasp that held the locket's two halves together. Inside was the photograph of a girl — a beautiful girl with laughing eyes and dark, curling hair. Amelia stifled a little cry as she recognized Molly Mae Spangler. CHAPTER THREE Amelia stared at the open locket in her hand. There could be no mistake. The girl in the tiny heart-shaped portrait was Molly Mae Spangler — and Molly had been found dead, strangled in Heath's hotel room, with Heath standing over her body. Dropping the little silver heart into her apron pocket, she walked back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, gazing at the dark stranger who lay wounded on her bed. Heath was sleeping like a tired child, his black hair falling in a damp tangle over his forehead, his eyelashes like charcoal smudges against his pallid skin. Had she rescued an innocent man or was she harboring a killer? Her own life could depend on the answer to that question. Heath had sworn to her that he hadn't killed Molly. Amelia had chosen to believe him. But she'd assumed that he was an innocent traveler who'd stumbled into a nightmare that was not of his making. Now she could no longer believe that story. Heath had known pretty Molly. He had come here to find her, perhaps to take her life. He moaned, thrashing in his sleep. "No…." he muttered, his head twisting on the pillow. "…Lord, no! …Molly... Molly!" His movements were becoming more and more frantic. Fearful that he would open his wound, Amelia flung herself down beside the bed and seized his upper arms. "It's all right...." she soothed, pressing down on him with her full weight. "Lie still. You're having a bad dream, that's all." His startling blue eyes shot open. For an instant he stared at her as if he did not remember who she was. Then a tremor passed through his body and he sank back onto the pillow. "No," he muttered. "It isn't all right. The bad dream is real." She sank back onto her heels, watching him. No, she concluded, he hadn't killed Molly — or at least, he hadn't meant to. No man could fake the kind of anguish she had just witnessed. Amelia reached into her apron and brought out the locket. "I found this in your shirt," she said. "I want the truth about what happened, Heath. You owe me that much." He shook his head. "The best way to repay what I owe you would be to drag myself out of this bed and leave right now. That way you could forget that any of this ever happened. You don't need my kind of trouble, Amelia." Impulsively she reached out and gripped his hand. His long, brown fingers were lightly callused. They tensed, then curled around her own as if seeking comfort. "It's a bit late for all that," she said. "Tell me. Even if it's bad, I have to know." Wincing, he eased himself up on the pillow so that he was looking directly at her. "Molly was my baby sister," he said. "She was just fifteen when she ran away from home — not that she'd had much of a home to run away from. I was off in the army at the time, and short of desertion there was nothing I could do. But I swore that one day I'd find her and make things right." "So you found her here." Amelia was acutely conscious of his fingers, still gripping hers. He nodded. "I'd sent out letters, even offered a reward. Even so, it took me years to locate her. By then I'd saved up enough of my pay to buy a parcel of Wyoming land with a house on it. Before I mustered out of the army, I wrote to Molly, asked her to come with me and start a new life."
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"And she said yes?" "There wasn't time to wait for her reply. I left Fort Kearny, rode here, and found her serving drinks in the saloon. She seemed nervous about talking there, so I took her up to my room, where we could have some privacy. We'd been there just a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. It was the desk clerk. I recognized his voice. He said there was a man downstairs, in the alley, who needed to talk to me." Heath's eyelids fluttered, and Amelia realized that he was still very weak, but he seemed determined to keep talking and she had no will to stop him. "I thought it might be somebody who fancied he had a claim on Molly," he said. "I slipped my gun in its holster, told Molly to lock the door, and went down the back stairs, to the alley." "And who was there?" Amelia asked softly. "Nobody. I spent a few minutes looking around. Then I went back up the stairs. I found the door to the room unlocked, and Molly inside...." Heath's throat moved as he swallowed. His fingers gripped Amelia's so hard that she could feel her bones grinding together. "I can't drag you any deeper into this mess," he said, struggling to sit up. "Help me back to the barn. I'll hide in the straw till nightfall. Then I'll be gone." "No!" Amelia tore her hand from his and pushed him back onto the pillow. "You're too weak to run from this! And even if you're lucky enough to get away, you'll be a hunted man for the rest of your life! Is that what you want?" "What I don't want is to get you hurt because of this. It's more dangerous than you know." His cobalt eyes burned with helpless fury. "All I want is to get away from here," he said. "I can't stay here, Amelia, not with that sheriff sniffing around." "But there has to be a way to prove you were innocent. What about the desk clerk?" "He was gone when I came out of the room, so he never saw me leave. Anyway, I'd bet money he was paid to get me out of there so somebody could be alone with Molly. He wouldn't —" Heath broke off, suddenly alert and wary. "Listen," he whispered. "I hear horses." Amelia darted to the kitchen window and peered through the lace curtain. Three mounted figures were approaching the far gate. Her heart sank as she recognized Sheriff Cam Bartlett, his eighteen-year-old brother, Billy, and their powerfully built father, Jethro Bartlett, who owned the Bramble Creek Bank. Frantic, she rushed back into the bedroom. Heath was already on his feet, looking pale and shaky. "Get me to the barn," he said. "I'll take it from there." "No, there's not time!" Amelia dropped to the floor, reached under the bed and moved aside a trapdoor. "There's a secret cellar down here. My husband built it as a hiding place, in case of trouble. Go on. I'll be all right." Heath slid under the bed, grunting with the pain of his wounded shoulder. Amelia heard him curse as he dropped into the hole. "I don't like this. Anybody looks down here, and I'll be trapped like a rat." "They won't look," Amelia said. "Nobody knows about this place but me." Stripping the bloodstained blanket from the bed she dropped it into the hole after him, then reached for the trapdoor to slide it into place. She gasped as his hand seized her wrist. "Maybe you ought to come down here with me," he said. "That way you won't be tempted to give me away." She struggled to pull away. "You don't trust me? After all this?"
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He hesitated, then released her. "Right now, Amelia, I can't afford to trust anybody." "Well, you'll just have to trust me. Get down and let me close this trapdoor. They'll be here any minute, and if they don't find me they'll know something's wrong." Amelia reached out again to pull the wooden cover into place. That was when she noticed the long smear of blood on her sleeve. CHAPTER FOUR "Amelia! Are you all right?" Cam Bartlett's voice rang out over the pounding on the kitchen door. Amelia paused to roll up her sleeves, hiding the stain Heath's blood had left on one of them. Forcing herself to be calm, she walked slowly to the door and opened it. "Thank heaven you're safe!" Cam strode into the kitchen, followed by his burly father, Jethro, and his lanky, pimpled nineteen-year-old brother, Billy. A glimpse of their lathered mounts in the dooryard told her they'd been riding hard. "Of course, I'm safe." Amelia said. "Whatever gave you the idea I wouldn't be?" Jethro Bartlett stepped directly into her path, his bullish face blocking her view. "Don't you play cute with us, Amelia, honey. You know that Cam trailed that murderer here, to your place. " "We think he's hiding here somewhere," Cam cut in. "Heath O'Connor's a mighty convincing liar, and you're too trusting for your own good. I can understand how he might sweet-talk you into helping him. But the man's a cold-blooded killer, and his victim was a woman. If you know where he is, darlin', you'd best tell us now. I'd hate to have to arrest you for aiding a fugitive." "You're talking nonsense, Cam Bartlett!" Amelia struggled against a rising tide of fear. "If you think your murderer is hiding in my barn, just go out and look!" "Already did." Cam's eyes narrowed. "I found blood on the straw, but no sign of O'Connor." His hand slid possessively around the curve of her waist. "How many times have I told you it's not safe, your being out here all alone? You need a man around the place. It's been more than a year since John was killed in that rock slide. If you ask me —" "How would you all like a nice piece of gooseberry pie?" Amelia asked, pulling away. "Otherwise you'll have come all the way out here for nothing." Without waiting for a reply she set three plates on the counter and began cutting the pie into generous slices. Cam had been after her to marry him almost from the day poor John was in the ground. She had never understood why, since there were several pretty young women in town who'd set their caps for the handsome sheriff. But none of them owned a ranch — especially a ranch whose boundaries straddled Upper Bramble Creek, which provided water for the neighboring homesteads and much of the town. If he couldn't get the ranch by marrying her, would Cam try another way? Like sending her to prison? "Billy, here, was sweet on Molly," Jethro said. "Hell, a lot of men were sweet on the girl, even with her bein' what she was. When we catch that bastard, O'Connor, he's gonna wish he was dead — an' pretty soon that's just what he'll be." The tone of his voice sent a chill up Amelia's spine. "Cam told me O'Connor gave up without a fight," she said. "Are you sure he's guilty?" "He was right there in the room." Cam eyed her coldly as he sat down. "There's nobody else it could've been."
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"I see." Amelia bit back the other questions she was burning to ask — questions that would give away things she wasn't supposed to know. The Bartletts seemed almost too eager to see Heath dead. Somehow she had to find out why. "What's that?" Cam's hand brushed Amelia's arm. She felt her heart stop as she realized her sleeve had slipped downward far enough to reveal the fresh smear of Heath's blood on the pale blue fabric. "Oh, I — killed a rat — in the barn," she stammered. "At least I tried. It —" Her words ended in a gasp as Cam's arm tightened around her wrist. "Stop it — you're hurting me!" "I've never known you to kill a rat in your life, darlin'," Cam drawled. "And you're not a very good liar. That's fresh blood on your sleeve, and if it came from where I think it did, you're in a lot of trouble. Do you know what the penalty for harboring a fugitive is, Amelia? Especially a murderer?" "Let the lady go, Bartlett." A low, tense voice ripped the silence. Amelia spun around to see Heath standing at the entrance to the kitchen, holding the double-barreled shotgun she'd left on the bedroom floor. His face was ashen and he held the stock of the heavy weapon braced against his side to steady its weight. But there was no mistaking the menace in his tone. "If the lady gave me any help, it's because I forced her to," he said. "I broke in here and threatened to hurt her if she didn't dress that bullet wound you gave me." His cobalt eyes glazed slightly, and Amelia stifled a moan. Heath was barely strong enough to stand. But he had crawled out of a safe hiding place to make sure she wasn't implicated in his escape. That, more than anything, told her she could trust this man with her life. "I said, let her go, Sheriff. I've got two barrels aimed right at your heart, and it would be a real shame to blast you all over this nice clean kitchen." Heath's eyes flickered toward Jethro and Billy. "Don't move, either of you. I'm already a dead man if I'm caught. I've got nothing to lose by pulling this trigger. Now, slowly, hands on the table where I can see them." Three pairs of hands inched upward to lie flat on Amelia's kitchen table. "You, lady," he growled at Amelia. "Get their guns. Bring them over to me. When everybody's comfortable, I'll be asking some questions, and I want some straight answers." Trembling, Amelia did as she was told. Jethro and Billy gave her no trouble as she slipped the pistols from their holsters. Cam, however, was seated at an angle to the table, so that she had to reach across his body to get his gun. As her fingers touched the grip, she felt a flicker of movement. Hidden for an instant, Cam had pulled a tiny derringer from his vest pocket. She heard the soft click as he thumbed back the hammer. Amelia jerked upward, striking his hand. The shot went wild, shattering the unlit lamp that hung from a hook on the ceiling, sending a shower of glass and oil onto the table. In the melee that followed she was knocked off balance and jerked sharply backward. When her head cleared she realized she was trapped in the crook of Heath's arm. He had exchanged the shotgun for one of the pistols, and he held it with the muzzle jammed against her breast. "Nobody moves or the lady dies," he said. "The two of us are getting out of here. Give us an hour. Then I'll let her go. Come after us any sooner and you'll find her body on the trail." He dragged her out to the yard toward Cam's tall bay horse. "Struggle, damn it," he hissed. "I'm supposed to be kidnapping you!" Amelia complied, flailing at his good shoulder as he flung her over the saddle and dragged himself painfully up behind her. He paused to catch the reins of one remaining horse and give the other one a slap that sent it rocketing toward the road. "Hang on," he muttered. Then he jabbed the bay's flanks with his knees and they were off in an explosion of dust and pounding hooves.
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They rode in silence, skimming the foothills until they found a trail that led along a mountain ridge. In a secluded clearing, he brought the horses to a halt, eased Amelia to the ground, and slid out of the saddle to rest. "This is as far as you go," he said. "I've already caused you more trouble than you deserve." She stared up at his pain-creased face. "But what are you going to do? You're innocent! If you run, you'll be a hunted man the rest of your days!" "And if I stay, the Bartletts will see that I don't live to stand trial." His eyes softened as he gazed down at her. "You've been my angel, Amelia. Now the only way I can repay you is to get out of your life." Aching, she searched his face. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. She had to find a way to make him see that. Heart pounding she took a step toward him. "Heath —" He caught her close, his strong arm all but crushing her against his body. The lips that found hers were rough and hungry, igniting flames of need that seared her to the depths of her soul. Her arms went around him, binding him to her as she returned his kiss, holding him tightly, knowing she never wanted to let him go. CHAPTER FIVE When Heath released Amelia from their long, dizzying kiss, they were both breathing hard. She gazed up at him, knowing he had meant to kiss her goodbye. But how could she watch him ride away, knowing he would be hunted down and shot like a wounded animal? There had to be a way to make this right. But if they parted now, they would never find it. "Stay with me, Heath," she whispered. "If you ride away, I'll never see you again." "Don't, Amelia." His voice was husky as he eased her away from him. "If things were different, I'd promise to come back for you. But we both know that can't happen. Once word gets out, I'll have every lawman and bounty hunter in the territory after me." "But that's not fair!" Amelia burst out. "You've done nothing. You've hurt no one. You're innocent!" "That doesn't matter. If I stay, the Bartletts will have the whole town gunning for me. I have no choice except to run, and you can't come with me. It's too dangerous." "What makes you think it's safe for me back there?" Amelia argued. "The Bartletts have wanted my land for years so they could sell water rights to the people downstream. If they can't get it by having Cam marry me, they'll find other ways." "Like sending you to jail for helping me? I was hoping we'd taken care of that." "It doesn't matter anymore. All they need to do is wait for me to come back down this trail. They can kill me and blame my death on you." Amelia watched the emotions flicker across Heath's face. His blue eyes were as troubled as the storm clouds welling up in the sky behind him. She was right about the Bartletts. Surely he would see that. Scowling, he turned away from her and swung into the saddle. "Do you have any family around here?" he asked. " Any close friends?" "None that I'd be willing to put in danger." "Come on, then." He reached down and pulled her up behind him. "I'll take you with me for now. But as soon as we come to a safe place, I'm leaving you there." "Then what?" she persisted. "Where will you go?"
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He swung the horse back onto the trail. "Don't even ask. The less you know about my plans, the safer it will be for both of us." "But you'll write, won't you? You'll let me know you're safe?" Heath's silence answered her question. Amelia settled herself behind the saddle, her hands gripping his waist. Only then did she notice the blood that was soaking into the dark blue shirt she'd lent him. "Your wound's opened up," she said. "We'll need to stop somewhere and replace the bandage." "Later. Right now we need to lose our three friends." He swung the horse off the trail and headed up the slope. Behind them, dark clouds billowed in the sky. The breeze that struck Amelia's face smelled of rain. "My husband did some prospecting in these hills," she said. "On the other side of that ridge, there's a place where he tunneled into the slope. Nobody else knows about it, so we should be —" The rest of her words were lost in a violent thunderclap. Rain poured out of the clouds, pelting the ground, turning the dust to mud. Heath swore as the horse slipped on the treacherous slope. "Where's that tunnel?" "Up there!" She pointed to an outcrop of rocks. Heath slid to the ground and led the toiling horse upward, toward the outcrop. Minutes later, muddy and soaked, they found the clump of heavy brush that screened the tunnel's entrance. The rocky tunnel was eight or ten paces in length, the opening just high enough for the horse to stand under its lip. Gray light filtered in through the brush, casting patterns on the dry sand that covered the floor. Amelia tore two long strips from the hem of her petticoat. "We've got to take care of that wound," she said. Heath allowed her to unbutton his shirt and slip it clear of his shoulder. His face was haggard in the wan light, his skin lightly feverish. What were they going to do? she wondered as she rebandaged the ugly wound. Heath was far from well. They had no food, no money, no blankets, and they were riding a stolen horse. There was no way they were going to get very far. Surely Heath knew that. What could he be thinking? She was knotting the bandage when the truth struck her — the only truth that made sense. "You proud, crazy fool!" she exclaimed. "You never planned to run, did you? You were going to hide out near Bramble Creek until you could learn who murdered your sister! Why in heaven's name didn't you tell me?" He shook his head. "I've already ruined your life, Amelia. I can't put you in any more danger." She gazed into his angry blue eyes, knowing what she had to say — and that words would not be enough to say it. Tilting her face to his, she sought and found the stubborn line of his mouth. For the space of a heartbeat she felt the resistance in him. Then his lips moved against hers. His arms went around her and he pulled her close. They kissed and clung with wild desperation, both of them knowing that here and now was all they might ever have. "There's no going back for me, Heath," she whispered as his hands fumbled with the buttons of her dress. "Whatever happens, I'm here, and I'll be with you." Their loving was bittersweet — hot and wild and hungry. Amelia filled her senses with the saltiness of his skin and the clean, musky aroma of his body. She wanted him — wanted his hands, his mouth on every part of her, wanted his hardness filling the place that had been empty too long. Heath was weak from his wound, but that did not lessen his need for her. She felt that need as he entered, pushing deep and hard, bringing a cry of pure animal joy to her lips. She pulled him into her body, meeting his thrusts again and again until the great bursting took them both, and they tumbled over the edge of heaven. ***
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Spent at last, and fully dressed, they lay in each other's arms waiting for the storm to end. Amelia felt the drumming of his heart, and she knew Heath's thoughts had already moved beyond their lovemaking to the desperate dilemma they faced. "What do you remember about the night Molly died?" she asked him. He sighed. "Molly was happy to see me and anxious to leave Bramble Creek, but she seemed nervous. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong, but I gathered it had something to do with a man." "Billy Bartlett? Could he have killed her, Heath?" "Maybe." He was still for a long moment, thinking. "There's something else — something I didn't remember until today." He eased away from her and sat up. "When I walked back into that hotel room and found Molly on the bed, there was an odor in the air. It smelled like tobacco — faint, as if someone had carried it on his clothes." "Billy smokes," Amelia said. "He rolls his own cigarettes. So does Cam." Heath shook his head. "This was different. Once I served under a general who smoked expensive Cuban cigars. That's the odor that was in the room the night Molly was murdered. I'd forgotten about it until I smelled it again in your kitchen, when the Bartletts were there." Amelia stared at him, stunned. "Only one man in Bramble Creek smokes cigars like that — Jethro Bartlett. Heath, why would he kill Molly? And what are you going to do?" "Bring him to justice if I can. That's the only way I'll get any answers. A friend of mine is a U.S. marshal in Central City. If we can get there, he may be willing to help us." "Central City's a three-day ride," Amelia said. "We can't make it without food and money and a second horse. I've got all those things back at the ranch, but we should probably wait for nightfall to go after them." When Heath did not respond, she continued. "We'll be safe enough here. The rain has washed out our trail, and nobody else knows about this tunnel." Heath did not respond. He was gazing down at a small, dark object that lay half-buried in the sand. As Amelia watched, he kicked it loose with the toe of his boot. She gasped as she saw it clearly. It was the half-smoked butt of a cigar. CHAPTER SIX Amelia stared at the object in the sand. "That's one of Jethro's cigars!" she exclaimed. "Heath, the Bartletts know about this tunnel, and they know which way we came! They're bound to come looking for us!" "And they'll know we were here." Heath gazed down at the trampled sand where they had clung together at the height of the storm. "The rain's stopped. Let's get moving while we can." She rode behind him, her arms clinging to his waist. Heath was silent as the horse negotiated the muddy trail through the aspens. What was he thinking? Amelia wondered. Was he sorry he'd taken her along? Was he sorry he'd made love to her? She glanced back over her shoulder and saw the deep hoofprints in the muddy ground. The Bartletts would have no trouble following such a trail. And with two riders on the horse, Heath would never be able to outrun them. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. "Stop, Heath," she said. "I'm not going with you."
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She felt his body stiffen. "Don't argue with me," she said quickly. "A girl knows when she's made a mistake, and I made a big one with you! If you think I'm riding all the way to Central City on the rump of a horse with no one for company but a wanted man without a cent to his name —" Amelia let her words hang on the air as she let go of Heath's waist and slid to the ground. She could see that her lies had cut him deeply. But there was no other way to set him free. "It's only a couple of hours back to town," she said. "I know the way, and I won't get caught. Once I'm there I'll be safe. Now get out of here!" Heath shot her a rueful glance, eyes blazing with wounded pride. Then, without a word, he turned away and kicked the horse to a trot. Amelia watched him until he disappeared through the trees. "Goodbye," she whispered, fighting tears. "Be safe, my love." Taking a new path, she cut across the hillside, where a thick stand of pines would hide her from view. Some friends lived a few miles away, up the next canyon. It would take extra time to hide her trail, but she could still be there by nightfall. Amelia had not gone a hundred yards before a trio of riders emerged through the trees, cutting off all chance of escape. "We figured you'd come this way, darlin'." Cam Bartlett reached down and seized her arm, jerking her to a halt. "Where's that murdering bastard, O'Connor?" "He's long gone." Amelia glanced back the way she had come. "He turned me loose back there. I waited out the rain alone in the tunnel, while he rode on. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be on my way." Cam chuckled. "You never were a very good liar, darlin'. We saw his boot tracks in that old mining tunnel of John's, and we're betting he hasn't gone far. Now, thanks to you, we've got a way to bring him back!" Guns drawn, the three men led Amelia to an outcrop of rocks. Dismounting, they took shelter behind it. "O'Connor!" Cam shouted. "We know you're out there somewhere! Get off that horse and come in with your hands up, or your lady friend here will get hurt bad!" The words echoed down the canyon, followed by a silence in which Amelia prayed that Heath would either be too far away to hear or too angry with her to answer. Her heart sank as Heath's voice rang out from the slope above them. He was close — much closer than he'd been if he'd simply kept riding. Had he turned around and come back for her? Her heart ached to know. "Amelia!" he called. "Are you there? Are you all right?""Don't come any closer, Heath!" Amelia shouted. "We know too much! They'll kill us both —" The words ended in a gasp as Cam clamped a rough hand over her mouth. "That's enough," he muttered. "Any more of that and you'll wind up like your husband —" He bit back the rest of the threat. Amelia froze in his arms. She'd known, of course, that John had refused to sell out to the Bartletts, but she'd accepted his death as an accident. Only now did she realize what must have really happened. "Let her go, Sheriff!" Heath called out. "When I know she's safe, I'll give myself up!" Cam laughed coldly. "Can't say as you've got a choice! You come down here now, or the lady won't look so pretty next time you see her." He shoved Amelia toward his younger brother. "Hang on to her, Billy. And watch out, she's a tricky one." Billy was more slender than either Cam or their father, but his grip on Amelia's arms was like steel wire. She watched in helpless dismay as Heath emerged from the trees with his hands above his head and no weapon in sight. He moved slowly, picking his way downward through the loose rock. His face was ashen, his shirt stained with blood where his wound had begun to seep again. His eyes met hers across the distance, and she felt the love in them. He would give his life for her, she knew. But she was not about to let him.
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Her gaze flickered toward Jethro Bartlett, who stood in the shelter of the rocks, out of harm's way, letting his sons do his dirty work now, just as he'd let Cam cover his crime by arresting an innocent man, with orders to make sure Heath never lived to stand trial. "I know you did it, Jethro," she said. "I know you killed Molly. You left the smell of your fancy Cuban cigars in the room where she died." Behind her, she felt the sharp intake of Billy's breath. The young man had been sweet on pretty Molly, that much she knew. But there were still many pieces missing to the puzzle. "Why did you do it, Jethro?" she persisted. "Were you afraid Molly would be a bad influence on your boy, or was it because you wanted her for yourself?" Jethro glared at her. "Shut your mouth, missy," he growled. "You don't know what you're talking about." "Don't I?" Amelia was bluffing now, but she plunged ahead. "You wanted Molly — maybe you even had her. But when you caught her in another man's hotel room, you strangled her in a jealous rage." "She was nothing but a little tramp!" Jethro snapped. "I would've made her a queen! Pretty clothes, trips to Denver, a fine place to live, but she couldn't stop her whorin' ways! If she'd just —" The gunshot exploded from behind Amelia's shoulder, so loud and so close it seemed to fill her whole head. She saw Jethro sag and crumple to the ground. Billy gave a loud cry, releasing her as he dropped his smoking revolver and fell to his knees beside his wounded father. Distracted by the shot, Cam did not see Heath shove the heavy boulder loose from the slope. The boulder rolled down the steep hill, setting loose a clattering shower of rock. By the time the startled Cam looked around, the rocks were coming straight at him. Amelia made a dive for the pistol Billy had dropped. Seizing the weapon in her hands, she cocked and aimed it. "Drop your gun, Cam!" she shouted. But even as she spoke, a fist-sized rock struck the sheriff in the middle of his forehead. Cam Bartlett staggered backward and fell to the ground, unconscious. Still gripping the gun, Amelia surveyed the scene. Jethro lay on the ground, bleeding from a gunshot wound in his ribs. Billy crouched over his father, weeping like a child. Cam lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, an ugly welt rising on his forehead. All of them, she concluded, would live to stand trial. Glancing up, she saw Heath coming down the hill toward her. His face was pale, his bloodless lips set in a hard line. But in his eyes, she saw understanding and forgiveness. The future stretched before them, filled with tender nights and sun-filled mornings, with children, hard work, and laughter. And with love. Love most of all.
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Night Moves by Jeanie London Beneath Delia Wallace's blond bombshell appearance beats the heart of a shy romantic. Delia's used to attracting men's attention, so she has no idea how to pursue her own personal fantasy man, Jackson Marsh, the only man who seems oblivious to her outer appearance. She's settled for being Jackson's friend and colleague by day, and his online fantasy woman by night. But before they both finish grad school and head off in different directions, she's got one night to make her fantasy a reality... Jackson Marsh has gotten to know and love the real Delia, and he's sure they could have a real future together. But he can't let her see him as just another guy, after her for her Barbie-doll good looks alone. So he's let her pursue him in her own way — under the cover of an online persona. But when his "mystery woman" invites him to spend one sensual evening together, he jumps at the chance to prove to her that he's interested in much more...
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE "Jackson will never recognize me." Delia Wallace stared into the mirror, amazed by the stranger staring back. "I don't recognize me." "That's because I'm a bloody genius," Ramón said, eyeing her reflection above stylish black eyeglass frames. "Your own mother wouldn't recognize you." Delia wasn't about to argue either point. As the owner and resident genius of Casa de Ramón, an upscale styling salon in the heart of historic Savannah, Ramón had every right to be proud of his accomplishments tonight. When he'd arrived at the theater earlier with his assistant in tow, his client had been a blonde with fair skin and blue eyes. Ramón's skill with beauty supplies and theatrical makeup had transformed her into a cat-eyed stranger with sleek raven-hair and exotic dark skin — the physical embodiment of her online persona, RisquéHistorian. It was her online persona, not the real Delia Wallace, who would enjoy a very hot night with her fantasy man if all went as planned. Finally. She'd met Jackson Marsh two years ago when they'd become partners in graduate school. He'd been gorgeous, charming, smart, and — unfortunately for her — involved in a longterm relationship. So Delia had reveled in their growing friendship and experienced her first taste of unrequited love. Until his relationship had ended. Suddenly the possibility of dropping the un from unrequited existed. Especially when she'd caught Jackson watching her with a gleam in his eyes. At least she'd thought she had and since she was no stranger to men noticing her...Delia had just figured that once his rebound time had passed, he would express an interest in deepening their friendship. But he hadn't. Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first move. Maybe she'd simply mistaken that look in his eyes. Delia didn't know, and she'd never know because she couldn't figure out how to address the subject without dissolving into a blushing, stammering puddle at Jackson's feet. Ah, the irony of fate. Her bombshell appearance was as much of an illusion as the gilt-trimmed facade of this sexy old theater — all showy on the outside with an internal structure that needed serious renovation. Beneath Delia's own curvy exterior beat the heart of a shy romantic. And since men had always pursued her, she'd never actually had to pursue one herself, which left her unsure how to pursue the one she wanted. She simply had to get over her inhibitions. At least long enough to enjoy a fantasy night with her fantasy man. Graduation was fast approaching and life would take her and Jackson in different directions.… Now was her only chance.
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Deciding the anonymity of cyberspace would help liberate her of self-consciousness, she'd assumed the screen name RisquéHistorian and become Jackson's online chat buddy. RisquéHistorian was a woman who knew practically everything about the Risqué Theatre, where she and Jackson were serving their internship for the historic preservation program at the University of Savannah. As RisquéHistorian, she'd spent the past months shedding her inhibitions and seducing him online for the big night when she'd finally appear in the flesh for a cameo appearance as his lover. "It's amazing." Delia searched her reflection for a glimpse of the woman she'd been for the past twenty-eight years. "How did you manage —" "A dab of foundation here and a dab of foundation there and voilà." Assistant Katriona leaned so close they were reflected together in the mirror, a distinctly odd pairing as Katriona stood six-foot-two in her stocking feet and flaunted her pancake makeup and razor-stubbled cheeks proudly. "You could be mistaken for an Indonesian princess. The look suits you, which is a miracle, given you're a dead ringer for Barbie on a normal day." Delia didn't need the reminder. Many women would have been thrilled to possess her classic features, but Delia had lived with the result for too long not to fully appreciate the downside of stereotypes. The phrase blond bombshell came to mind. Most people assumed that looking like Barbie meant she must be sexually daring. Women steered their boyfriends past her at parties. Men presumed she'd be open to invitations. Many times in her life she'd considered downplaying her looks with a severe hairstyle and a shapeless wardrobe, but she refused to make grooming concessions that made her feel ashamed of the way she looked. But tonight...temporary grooming concessions were absolutely necessary. "You don't think I'm too exotic-looking? I want Jackson to find me attractive." "Are you kidding, girlfriend?" Katriona waved a hand dismissively, flashing dragon-lady nails. "The man would have to be dead not to drool. You're oozing sex, or will be as soon as we get you into costume." From where Delia sat, her costume didn't look like much of one. The flesh-toned sheath dripped off a dressmaker's mannequin, nearly see-through but for the intricate beadwork that would strategically veil various body parts. A gown that flaunted her assets in a way she'd never done before. "Come on," Ramón said. "Let's get you dressed. Your man will be showing up soon and you don't want him peeking at his present before you wrap the package." Slipping out of the vanity chair, Delia turned herself over to the professionals for gift-wrapping. "I hope Jackson's interested. I hate to think of your hard work going to waste." "I'll charge your credit card anyway." Ramón knelt, motioning for her to step inside the gown. "So enjoy your night. You will be paying for it." Delia dismissed the thought of next month's minimum payment. She could rationalize the expense as a graduation gift for herself — she'd worked long and hard enough for a great one — but the thought of not getting her real gift, a night with Jackson… "There. All set." Ramón tugged the zipper up and Delia turned to survey the effect. The gown's low-slung back reached to the cleft of her backside. She gave a low whistle. "Yow is right, girlfriend." Katriona said. "But you still haven't told us why you planned your seduction at the Risqué Theatre. It's under construction."
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"I know. Jackson and I are interning with the architect who's renovating. It's our place. Not to mention it's an erotic theater." "But the man doesn't know he's coming here to get erotic with you." "That was the whole point of my plan." A plan that had better go off accordingly, Delia thought as she saw Ramón and Katriona to the theater's back exit a short time later. She'd devoted entirely too much time to this scheme to settle for anything less than success. She'd spent too many months trying to squelch her attraction to Jackson while he'd been dating someone else, alternating between guilt and frustration for wanting a man who belonged to another woman. Then there were the months of hoping and waiting after he'd become a free agent. Then hours and hours of chatting online under an assumed identity to have the sorts of intellectually stimulating, emotionally moving conversations she could never seem to initiate when staring into his sexy dark eyes. But tonight, disguised as a fantasy woman, she'd put her inhibitions behind her. Delia headed to the AV room, where she flipped a switch to fill the theater with sultry swing music from a bygone era. The better to dance with you, my dear. She hurried down the hall, where ornate plasterwork depicting sexy couples was in various stages of restoration, to the theater's concession area, which even in its current disarray brought to mind opening nights from past decades when theater-goers milled through the gilttrimmed lobby, waiting for the crystal chandelier to signal the next act. Delia unlocked the door and climbed the sweeping staircase to await her guest. Placing a hand on the railing, she showcased herself to prepare for her entrance. The better to perform for you, my dear. And then the door opened. Showtime. CHAPTER TWO Jackson Marsh stepped inside the lobby of the Risqué Theatre before locking the door as per the instructions on his invitation. Scanning the interior, he made a mental note of the differences between the work site he'd left the previous day and the low-lit, fanciful setting surrounding him now. Although his hostess had only added a table for two, piped-in music, and refreshments at the bar, she'd created an intimate atmosphere that was kind to the half-stripped wallpaper and broken tile work currently undergoing a major overhaul. Or maybe his rushing pulse just enhanced the mood of the place. Could be. Yesterday he'd viewed this lobby as a living lab, a place where the past would soon blend smoothly with the present under the skillful direction of the project architect. Tonight, as a man who'd been teased for months by an online temptress, he viewed this lobby as the place where he'd capture the woman of his dreams. RisquéHistorian — sexy, brilliant, and completely outrageous. She'd seduced him with her intelligence, her wit, and a boldness that had conceived of this wild plan to finally meet in a place symbolizing their shared interest.
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Jackson stepped inside, glancing overhead at the ceiling moldings, where naked cherubs grinned as they pointed golden love arrows at him from every direction. I've already been hit, he silently informed them, so aim for the girl. And the instant he saw her, poised at the top of the grand staircase for a dramatic entrance, Jackson knew he'd need all the help he could get tonight. "Good evening." She issued her greeting in a low silky voice he barely recognized, a sound that conjured visions of his body wrapped around hers. His gaze locked on her as she began her descent, flowing down those stairs with a grace that drew his attention to the way her gown glimmered over her curves. All that spangly beadwork and yet he could see breathtaking glimpses of her lush body below. Swallowing hard, Jackson lifted his gaze to her face. Amazing. She'd been renovated more than the Risqué Theatre, a total change from the blond-haired, blueeyed angel he'd worked with yesterday while mapping the gallery floor. This woman was a black-haired, green-eyed embodiment of sex. For one blind moment, Jackson thought he'd been mistaken, that the woman who called herself the screen name RisquéHistorian wasn't really his friend Delia Wallace, but simply a stranger who'd chanced across him online. "I'm glad you decided to join me." Her sultry tone didn't hide the way her voice trembled. No, he wasn't mistaken. She may have lowered her voice a sexy octave and reinvented her appearance into this exotic creature, but the Delia he knew was still there. "You invited me for a fantasy night in our special place. I'm honored." He was, and he wasn't. He'd hoped she would spring the big surprise on him by greeting him as herself. She extended her hand with such studied femininity that Jackson couldn't help but smile. Shifting the roses he'd brought, he twined his fingers through hers, observed how her new skin tone extended down to the manicured tips. Then he pressed his lips to her warm skin and marveled at the way touching her affected him. Heat sizzled through him like a brushfire and he saw a similar reply in her eyes. Their color may have been unfamiliar, but the awareness was there. He lingered over her hand and it was only the reminder of the greater pleasures the night would bring that prompted Jackson to let go. "For you." He handed her the roses. "Red roses are my favorite." "I know. I remember everything you've shared with me in our chats." "I'm flattered." "I'm fascinated." Their gazes met above the blooms. Their surroundings became surreal as the promise of sex filtered between them.
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"So how does reality hold up to fantasy?" she asked. Though her expression never changed, Jackson recognized the vulnerability in her question. That vulnerability was the real problem here. Delia was intelligent, gorgeous, used to men pursuing her, and very shy. She'd been counting on him to fall all over her just like one of the thousand other poor guys who routinely fell all over her. Jackson wanted to be a lot more and she needed to understand that or they'd never have a solid foundation to build a relationship on. He'd decided the best way to make his point was to let her pursue him. He'd been counting on their friendship to help her overcome her shyness, but upon reflection, he realized he never should have expected Delia to do the expected. Predictable simply wasn't her style and she'd outdone herself by pursuing him under the online screen name RisquéHistorian. Instead of relying on their friendship, she'd relied on a disguise and right now Jackson couldn't tell whether she was worried he'd see through her ruse or that he didn't like her new look. But he knew Delia well enough to know he needed a lot more than words to bridge this distance. Reaching out to stroke her cheek, he grazed his fingertips along her skin, aroused by the freedom to touch her, and not just a little interested in how she'd pulled off such a dramatic change in her appearance. "Reality far surpasses the fantasy," he said. "You're brilliant and beautiful and I'm one very lucky man." She trembled, and judging by the way her expression melted into a pleased smile, he'd said exactly the right thing. "So what shall I call you?" The only name she'd given him online was RisquéHistorian and he needed to know if she wanted to continue playing the game. "I prefer the mystery of our screen names, don't you?" Not much mystery there since his screen name was JackMarsh. "Lady's choice." "Let's run with the fantasy, shall we? Tonight's our night to enjoy our special place without reality intruding. No past. No future. Only now, the two of us." Jackson nodded. He'd have to play along, because he wouldn't tip his hand until he knew the time was right. He wanted to get on with exploring their incredible chemistry and planning their future. He'd already waited so long. Too long, though the fault was his own. He'd gotten complacent with his high school sweetheart. It had taken meeting Delia for him realize they were only still a couple because they'd grown comfortable. Even more time had passed before he'd finally admitted his heart really wasn't in the relationship anymore. His former girlfriend had agreed. They'd parted ways and remained friends. But Delia couldn't know this, so when she swept past him with a breezy "I'll find something to put these roses in," he was left staring after her. And noticing the back of her dress. Or lack of back rather. The shimmery fabric scooped below her waist, exposing lots of skin as she walked across the lobby toward the concession area. Blindsided by the sight, Jackson had to shake off the effect to follow. Circling the concession area, Delia moved as comfortably behind the bar in her high heels as she did in her work boots. She produced another silver ice bucket, filled it with water, and arranged the roses inside. "These are lovely. Thank you so much." "Beautiful flowers for a very beautiful lady."
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"I promised you a tour through the Risqué's erotic history tonight." "I'm ready for the tour, the erotic history...." He paused, smiled. "And for you." She'd promised him a lot more than a tour in the darkness of late night as he'd stared at his computer monitor, connected through cyberspace. The cover of anonymity had fueled her boldness in a way that had him thoroughly turned on. "I'll do the honors." Needing something to occupy his hands, he reached for the champagne bottle, popped the top and filled the glasses. After accepting a glass, Delia tilted the rim to his with a tinkle of crystal. "To our night together." "To us." He brought the glass to his lips in an effort to curtail a smile. Delia really thought she was going to get away with one night. How would she react to learn he wasn't interested in a limited engagement? There was one way to find out. With the taste of champagne still lingering on his lips, he leaned forward to kiss her. CHAPTER THREE Delia shared a breath with Jackson before their lips met. She inhaled the mingled scents of hot male and champagne, tasted an urgency that surprised and thrilled her. His sensual mouth had always fascinated her, had tempted her to kiss him a thousand different times. His words came back to her, just a whisper of memory that added to the magic of the moment. "Reality far surpasses the fantasy," he'd said. "You're brilliant and beautiful and I'm one very lucky man." Jackson was brilliant and beautiful, too. And never so much as tonight. This was a Jackson she'd never seen before, polished and purposeful and oh-so appealing. When she'd descended those stairs, she'd grown breathless at the sight of him in his tux. He'd seemed like a stranger with his tall, athletic body showcased to perfection in crisp black and white, his broad shoulders filling out the lines of his jacket. He'd combed his inky black hair and when he'd gazed up at her, pleasure so clear on his face, she'd known she'd made the right decision by devising her sexy plan. She was one very lucky lady. For tonight at least. The bar separated them, but apparently Jackson didn't consider it an obstacle. Threading his fingers into her hair, he smoothed work-rough palms over her cheeks, tipped her face to deepen their kiss. He kissed her as though he'd wanted her forever, and the intensity of his hunger struck her as odd. She was technically a stranger, despite their intimate online chats. But her own flaring need forbade her from following the thought. She couldn't do more than slide her fingers over his, learn the texture of his skin, the curves and hollows of hands she'd admired from afar for so long. A desire she hadn't dreamed could grow any hotter spiked through her. She wanted this man like she'd never wanted another. She craved his mouth on hers. His masculine scent filled her senses, played to her deepest fantasies and promised so much more. She wanted to feel his body pressed against her, wanted to feel his strong hands caress her skin. She wanted to see his face sharpen with desire, wanted to hear his voice as he reached his own pleasure. The bar supported her when her knees grew weak. The gilt railing dug into her ribs, but the discomfort was nothing to the longing, an ache that made heat pool between her thighs, made her muscles clench with a needy little spasm.
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She sighed when his lips nibbled along her jaw, a purely sensual experience with his lips caressing, his tongue stroking, his breath breaking in warm bursts against her skin. When he trailed his mouth to the hand she held over his, pausing to rest his cheek against her fingertips, he literally took Delia's breath away with his tenderness. Perhaps he sensed her surprise, because he opened his eyes, searched her face for...what, she couldn't say, but she knew he'd found it because he slipped his hands from beneath hers and caught them in his. He didn't let go. "I guessed kissing you would be awesome, but I didn't know how arousing," he said. "Way better than the fantasy, Risqué." Somehow his nickname for her sounded right spoken in his rich hint-of-the-Deep-South voice. She laughed, a sexy sound, but how could she laugh any other way when she felt so sexy beneath his gaze? His dark eyes poured over her as though seeing her for the first time, clearly as amazed by the intensity between them as she was. "Since we're spinning fantasies tonight," he said. "I have a request." "Your wish is my command." He smiled at that, a roguish smile filled with promise. "Anything?" Delia brushed her mouth across his knuckles, a caress. She would have agreed to anything right now. The night spread before them ripe with sensuality, her one and only chance to explore the sensations this man evoked in her. "I want to dance with you," he said. Dance. She sighed again. Dancing suggested an intimate, thorough introduction to each other and intimate and thorough sounded perfect. "Great minds think alike. I chose this music because you mentioned your professor listens to it and you're acquiring a taste." He arched a dark eyebrow. "So I'm not the only one who's been paying close attention to our chats." "I've been hanging on to your every word, JackMarsh." "For how long?" "Since we met." His expression suggested her admission was the greatest compliment she could have paid him. With a smile, he drew her hand into his then guided her around the bar. Delia suddenly stood before him, never more aware of her body than she was at this moment. Jackson's gaze caressed her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. A part of her trembled at the need she saw in his face, even as she experienced a terrible sense of disappointment that he looked this way at a stranger, a woman who didn't exist in reality except for tonight. She wanted him to want her, the real her. But Jackson didn't give her a chance to dwell long on disappointment. In a move reminiscent of her latenight fantasies, he gathered her into his strong arms, introduced their bodies in a motion that brought them together full length.
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Delia wasn't short by any stretch of the imagination, but even in her heels, the top of her head only reached Jackson's chin. Her cheek rested comfortably against his shoulder. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She could feel the strength of his muscles beneath his jacket, sense the steady beat of his heart. He slid his hand along her waist and down the curve of her hip until his fingers rounded her backside and coaxed their hips close enough so she could feel the erection that revealed so much better than words that he was as aroused by her as she was by him. "You said anything," he said without apology, yet still acting the gentleman by giving her a chance to retreat. "Yes." She breathed the word on the edge of a sigh, as captured by the strength of his body as she was by the pleasure in his eyes. The corners of his mouth tipped up with that devilish grin and he pulled her a little closer. "You trust me?" "I do." "Why?" "Because you've opened your heart online." "You think that makes me trustworthy?" He tightened his grip on her a little more, tested her limits, a heady combination of respect and daring, a Jackson Marsh who was as much a stranger to Delia as the man in the moon. Only online had she ever glimpsed the demanding lover he might prove to be, but now she stared proof in the face. She'd known Jackson the partner, the tutor, and the friend but never Jackson the potential lover. "I do," she said, rising to his challenge. He only smiled and the moment took on an unknown quality, a merging of her friend with her fantasy lover. The possibilities for the night suddenly seemed endless. Especially behind the anonymity of her costume. For now, at least, she could indulge this wildness that made her lean back until he balanced her in his arms, arch her neck in case he should want to kiss her there. "Shall we?" he asked. "Yes." And then, their bodies molded together as one, as they began to move. CHAPTER FOUR Jackson marveled at the way Delia followed his movements easily, their bodies swaying in the dance as though they'd known each other forever. Though slender, she was curvy in a way he found very attractive, a woman to mold against a man in all the right places. Against him. She felt so damned...right. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, Jackson moved to the music, savoring the feel of her body against him and inhaling the scent of her hair, strangely different tonight than the lightly floral fragrance he'd been stealing whiffs of in class or whenever chance permitted. A by-product of her disguise, he guessed. "This is exactly what I had in mind for our special night," she said softly.
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"It's off to a very promising start." "You'll have to tell me more about what you'd like to accomplish, so I'm sure to meet your expectations." A familiar candor glittered in those unfamiliar green eyes and Jackson found himself slowing their pace to hang on to her a little tighter. He couldn't help himself. Delia was such a beautiful woman, all sleek curves and creamy skin. He admitted to more than one fantasy about her gracing his bed, wearing nothing more than her blond hair. Just the thought had the ability to make saliva pool in his mouth until he was forced to swallow. It was no wonder she managed to hide her shyness behind her stunning looks. She practically rendered him blind with her smile. Most men didn't hear a word she said. Their senses, along with their brains, took up residence in their eyes, which never glanced higher than her breasts. The poor Joes couldn't help it. Jackson knew that firsthand, as he'd been guilty of the same crime when meeting her. He'd managed to drag his gaze above her chest and make it as far as her eyes before drowning in those bright blue depths. But Jackson had been loyal to his former girlfriend and had overcome his starstruck reaction. Only later, after he and Delia had become partners and friends, had he realized how deceiving her looks actually were. She may have looked as though she was comfortable commanding the attention of every person in a room with her stunning good looks and sparkling smiles but that wasn't the case. Jackson was very grateful he'd had that time to become her friend because a friend pretending to be a stranger had enough of an edge to turn this situation around to his benefit. "You've surpassed my expectations already, Risqué." He meant it. "Your idea to meet for the first time in our special place was inspired." "We're both connected to the theater and tonight should be special, don't you think? We already know each other intimately, so to speak, so the rest would be just logistics otherwise." "Intimately. What an interesting word choice." "It fits. You've been very forthcoming in our chats." "You're easy to talk to...well, write to." He smiled, rather sheepishly as it was. "About what I'd like to accomplish tonight...we're progressing along nicely. My first objective was to see if I was as attracted to you in person as I was online." "And..." She peered up from beneath thick black lashes. "Mission accomplished." He dipped her low over his arm, savoring the surprised little gasp that slid from her lips and the way she responded so naturally to his motion, enjoying the sight of her dark hair cascading behind her, exposing her throat and a glimpse of her breasts as they swelled above her neckline. "What's your second objective?" she asked as he brought her against him again. "To prove myself worthy." "Really? Of what?" "My third objective, which involves the two of us naked." More than he had yet tonight, Jackson recognized Delia in her unguarded reaction to his boldness, in the expression that made her eyes widen and her breath hitch audibly. She couldn't completely mask the
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blushing, beautiful girl she was behind the makeup, nor could she hide that she was emotionally invested in what was happening between them. Knowing this gave him the first hope he had that he might just accomplish his real mission objective — making Delia drop the games and commit to a future. "Have I shocked you, Risqué?" Green contacts didn't hide the flash of surprise in her eyes or the exact moment when she rallied past surprise to rise to his challenge. "No, it's just...what a coincidence. It so happens that getting naked with you is on my to-do list, too." "Isn't it remarkable how our thoughts so often run in the same direction. If you weren't convinced before, here's proof." I'm convinced." Snuggling even closer, she stood on tiptoe to press silk-soft lips to his. Jackson gave up all pretense of trying to dance. Grinding to a halt, he wrapped his arms around her, tucked her neatly into the folds of his body. Their kiss was urgent this time and he couldn't contain the need to skim his hands over her curves, exploring every smooth inch while cataloguing the touches that brought a sigh to her lips or sent goose bumps along her bare arms. With the slightest pressure, he nudged his thigh between hers. Though her narrow gown didn't allow much room, she rode against him just enough so he could feel her faint heat despite the clothing separating them. Or maybe he just imagined he could feel her. She was pushing him past limits he'd thought were solid. It became a test of his control not to slip the gown from her shoulders and make love to her where they stood. He settled for running his hands down her bare back instead, slipping his fingers inside the gown that hugged her derriere, where Jackson made a stunning discovery — Delia wasn't wearing anything beneath, not even the wispiest thong. Without a thought for the liberty he took, he sank both hands into her gown. Running his fingers along her firm curves, he pulled her even closer, ground himself against her with a forceful thrust that made him groan. She sighed. He dragged his mouth from hers, knowing that if he didn't catch his breath right now, he was a goner. He'd strip Delia where she stood and show her exactly how much he wanted to make love to her. Forcing his eyes to open, he found her watching him. For a moment they stood facing each other, both flushed and breathless. "Looks like we're well on our way to meeting your third objective," she said. "What was next on your agenda?" Had Jackson not known the woman beneath the makeup, he might have missed the relief in her expression. But he caught it. RisquéHistorian was getting a lot more than she'd bargained for tonight. He was gratified to see she was as jolted as he felt, and not surprised when she shot a glance at the bar, where silver catering trays beckoned. He knew Delia and she was looking to run, if only for a moment to catch her breath, and he wasn't surprised when she asked, "Are you hungry?" Oh, he was hungry all right. "For you." CHAPTER FIVE
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Delia forced a light laugh and headed back behind the bar to put some much-needed distance between her and Jackson. She needed to collect her thoughts, and her breath, before she wound up abandoning her carefully planned fantasy and making love to him right here in the concession area. Not in the game plan. Dancing with Jackson and their erotic kiss had not only left her trembling with desire but with alarm bells clanging wildly in her head. Unfortunately she was just beginning to suspect that she'd seriously underestimated how much emotion would factor tonight. Not only her own, but Jackson's. She hadn't counted on him being so involved with a woman he'd only met online. "Why don't we grab something to eat while we tour the theater." She needed to get back to her plan fast, needed some breathing room to think this unexpected turn through. "I want you to show me everything you've been doing to preserve the place. And I'll amaze you with my knowledge of the history." "You already amaze me." His voice was silky smooth. "You're a very amazing woman, Risqué." How she'd longed to hear him say that when she wasn't wearing a disguise! "I'm glad you think so. It's nice to know I'm not the only one feeling amazed tonight." He smiled and refilled the champagne glasses. "So what's on the menu?" "Lobster cocktail from Lester's. Marinated mushrooms from the Olde River House. And..." She raised the lid of the final serving tray. "Sushi from Ichiban." "All my favorites. You've put a lot of effort into tonight." The man had no idea. "I wanted it to be perfect." Rather than looking pleased, Jackson looked thoughtful. A fluttering started deep inside her and Delia avoided his gaze, turned to action as a distraction. Arranging a sampling of morsels on a plate, she added two linen napkins to their to-go meal. But Jackson wouldn't be ignored. He leaned over the bar to close the distance between them. "What happens if tonight's so perfect I want a repeat performance?" That was a contingency she hadn't planned for, but she couldn't tell him that. "I thought we were about the fantasy, JackMarsh." "What if we can be more?" "All our online discussions... While we know each other intimately, we've talked very little about our lives in real time. I figured a fantasy night would be enough." "What if I can convince you to give us a try in real life?" How she'd longed to hear those words! But now her stomach gave a wild lurch, brought her face-to-face with the fact that she'd really underestimated the role emotion would play tonight. She'd planned for every conceivable contingency. Or so she'd thought. The one contingency she hadn't planned for was hearing Jackson talk about tomorrow with a woman who didn't exist. It just hadn't occurred to her that he could become so attached to a woman he'd only known through cyberspace. She hadn't realized his emotions would be so easily engaged, especially not when he hadn't been interested in the realtime version of her. And here she'd thought she'd known him. "Let's just see how the night goes and not worry about tomorrow, shall we?"
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It was a cop-out. She knew it. He knew it. His mouth thinned just enough to harden the lines of his face. And because she knew this man, she understood that expression. He was disappointed, and she didn't have the ability to counteract disappointment, because she'd never anticipated this turn of events. "You're underestimating my ability to convince you of the merits of a fantasy night," she said, a lot more boldly than she felt. "Fair enough. But turnabout is fair play. I want a chance to convince you of the merits of reality. You have to promise to listen when I decide the time is right." Her heart started to pound, not the languid, bone-melting sort of pounding she'd experienced in his arms, but a sense of foreboding. "You sound so cryptic." "Not cryptic. I just want a chance to lay my cards on the table when the time comes." He raised his champagne flute. "Deal." She raised hers. "Only if you promise to return the favor." The way the night was progressing, she just might need to call in that promise.… He tapped her flute. "Deal. You won't be sorry, Risqué." Plucking a marinated mushroom from the plate, he popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Ready for our tour?" "Yes." Delia meant that in a big way. Treading these unforeseen emotional waters hadn't been part of her plan. She'd been looking for excitement, a special night of fantasy without the risk of harming their friendship. Her plan simply didn't allow for tomorrow. Jackson would be a lot more than disappointed if he found out who she really was. She'd lose her fantasy man and her friend all in one night. Just the thought made her shiver. Hindsight convinced her she should have known better than to anticipate his reaction. Why hadn't she expected him to have some night moves of his own? "You carry the champagne and I'll handle our meal," he directed. "Where to first — the long corridor, the gallery, or backstage?" "The gallery." In the direction of the staircase that led to the dressing rooms below and the prop room, where she'd move them to phase two and try to get back on track. In between savory bites of lobster and sips of champagne, Delia glossed over the history of the Risqué Theatre and its origin as a place to celebrate culture and art after the Civil War, when morale in the South had been low and people's faith shaken. Savannah's insightful politicians of the time had built the theater to engage the city's interest by targeting men's, and women's, interest in sex. But Jackson knew the facts as well as she did. Their professor, Dr. Blake, required them to know as much about the history of a renovation project as they did the architectural processes used to rehabilitate a site. So she wowed Jackson with the trivia of the place instead, interesting happenings between actors, and other minutiae. "How do you know all this stuff?" Jackson asked, sufficiently awed. "That's a historian's job." Not quite the truth, but enough of it for tonight. Jackson, in turn, shared his thoughts about how renovating the Risqué Theatre presented the challenge of retaining the distinctive flavor of a building that had provided a home to an eclectic variety of erotic theatrical
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venues from vaudeville, burlesques, and gangster films to modern film noir, performance art, and improvisation. Delia knew what amazing things Dr. Fairfax, the architect who was supervising the restoration, his design team, and their interns were doing around here, but she asked questions and responded to Jackson's answers with interest. At first she'd meant to keep her cover up, but as they finished the appetizers and polished off the champagne, she found herself asking questions just to keep him talking. His voice filtered through her in a way she'd never fully appreciated during their busy days on site or on campus. Something about the solitude and the late hour, she supposed, because the awareness flowed between them like an electrical current. After abandoning their dinnerware, they indulged in glancing touches that led to steamy embraces and long exploring kisses that kept sidetracking them from their tour. But along with these distractions, Jackson shared opinions about their work that he'd never expressed before, which made Delia curious about why he opened up so easily to her online personality. She wanted to know. Her emotions were getting the better of her. One minute she was melting into his arms, caught up in the fantasy. The next, she was hurt by the reality that he felt closer to a stranger than he ever had to the real her. Jackson Marsh had some nerve talking about real-time and shared tomorrows. How could he be so involved with a fantasy woman but completely unwilling to get involved with the woman who worked by his side all day long? CHAPTER SIX "So tell me about this colleague of yours," Delia said. Not exactly a question. "I don't recall you ever mentioning her before." Jackson bit back a grin. She was fishing. This might be his second promising sign that he could win her over before the night was through. "Not much to tell, really. She's...nice." "Nice?" Though she looked only mildly curious, there was just something about the way the word seemed to catch in her throat that told Jackson the whole story. "Yeah, nice. Very competent, too. Except in math. No head for numbers at all." "Really?" He shrugged again, trying to decide if that was indignation flashing behind those green contact lenses. "So how long have you two been working together?" she asked, clearly still looking for something he hadn't yet provided. "Since I started my internship. I think our professor assigned us as a team so I could keep her out of trouble. Delia's a real looker. The guys pant after her." "But not you?" Jackson shook his head while gnawing on the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. "I like mystery and substance in a woman. Just like you have."
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Delia looked as though she couldn't decide whether to quit while she was ahead or haul back and punch him. Judging by the color staining her already-darkened cheeks, he suspected she was leaning toward the latter. "I'm not interested in talking about my working partner, Risqué. I'm interested in you." To say she looked pained would have been a mild understatement, but she recovered quickly. "How nice." The words were encrusted with ice and Jackson grabbed her before she got away. Crowding her back against the wall, he went to work on soothing hurt feelings. "Yes, it is. It's very, very nice." He trailed kisses under her jaw, was rewarded when her pulse jumped in her throat. He kissed her there, too. Grazing his fingertips down the smooth arc of her neck, he rounded the curve of her shoulders, barely resisted the urge to drag the clingy fabric down her arms and peel the dress away. Instead, he molded his hands over her breasts, discovering what he'd suspected since exploring her bottom earlier — she was bare everywhere. If he peeled away her gown right now, he'd fulfill his fondest wish. But Delia had retreated emotionally and he had some work to do to bring her back. Coaxing her chin up with a few well-placed nudges of his nose, he caught her mouth with his, tasted those sweet lips. Her breasts filled his palms. Flicking his thumbs across the peaks until they hardened, he tugged one tip, caught Delia's moan with his kiss. And when she slipped her arms around his waist to pull him close, he knew she'd finally let go of her anger. Or was planning to extract a sexy vengeance, which served his purpose as well This woman aroused him in a way that drove home just how much he had riding on tonight. He wanted a future to discover how to coax these soft sighs from her lips, learn how many different ways he could make her arch against him, greedy to feel their bodies pressed together. He wanted to explore the different ways to make her climax, to hear her gasp in pleasure. Desire drove him to sink his tongue deeper in her mouth, to cradle the weighty fullness of her breasts in his palms, to envision what she would look like bared, swollen from his touch, wet from his mouth. Desire urged him to finally break their kiss, to stare down into her exotic face, at thick lashes forming inky semicircles on her cheeks, at lips slightly parted around soft bursts of breath. She looked like arousal come to life. Despite the tanned skin, the sloe eyes, the cloud of dark hair, she was the woman he'd fantasized about. "I want to make love to you, Risqué." Her lashes fluttered open. He found himself holding his breath as she lifted up on tiptoes and brushed that luscious mouth against his. "Is that a yes?" A smile curved that passion-swollen mouth. "I know the perfect place." Catching his hand, she led him back down the corridor, past columns that were sculptures of naked couples engaged in their own passionate acts. She led him back to the gallery. "Not on the stage?" He hoped. Construction equipment littered the boards, a reminder of their real-time life. He wanted to begin their future someplace he could stretch out to enjoy every inch of Delia. "No. Not the stage," she said.
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He didn't ask where. He just followed her backstage. She could have taken him straight to hell for all Jackson cared, when she lifted her hem and descended the stairs, bottom swaying provocatively and keeping him dogging her heels. To his surprise, Delia didn't lead him into a dressing room, but to the prop room instead. All manners of décor from decades of erotic performances were stored inside, and would be until the project architect deemed it necessary to unload the room and sort the wheat from the chaff with the theater management's direction. He wondered when she'd finagled a visit inside. Delia didn't flip on the overhead lighting, but rather turned on a set of lamps that had been left over from some boudoir stage set. The lamps cast the room into a soft golden glow and threw just enough light to maneuver through the chaos of scenery, props, and backdrops without doing bodily harm. "Isn't this place just wonderful?" she asked. "Do you see all this stuff?" "I do, indeed." Unfortunately he saw no place to lie down. He did notice Delia discreetly lock the door behind them, though, confirming they'd reached their final destination. "Come on." She avoided his gaze but reached for his hand again. "It's back here." When they turned the corner, he saw it. A massive bed shaped like a swan, complete with sparkling wings, white satin sheets, and an abundance of red pillows that made the thing look like some lurid creation from a Poconos honeymoon brochure. Jackson blinked. Delia beamed. "Isn't it great?" He took another look. This bed had to be a prop from some fantasy performance. Beyond being huge, it stood so high off the floor that steps made of the same sparkly material as the bed had been positioned beside it, large enough to climb and still provide a table for an ice bucket and champagne glasses. The champagne touched him. He was very pleased she'd put so much effort into seducing him. This was exactly the pursuit he'd been waiting for. He glanced at the swan bed again. Well, sort of. "Yeah, it's...great," he said, attempting to inject enthusiasm into his voice without much success. He'd fantasized about making love to this woman but never in a bed like this. "You couldn't have come up with anything more...fantasy." Not if she'd tried. Delia just laughed, a sound that carried through the dimly lit room, filled the shadows with light. Then she turned her back to him, visibly trembling with excitement. "Would you mind?" "What?" "Undoing my zipper. I can't climb the steps in this dress." She was going to...what? Climb those steps naked?
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It was worth any effort to find out. Dragging the zipper down, he swallowed hard when the fabric parted to reveal an expanse of tanned skin. Without a word, she let the gown fall to the floor, gifting him with an aweinspiring display of slender curves and heart-shaped bottom. He'd been right. She hadn't worn a stitch underneath that gown. "Coming?" She shot him a breathless gaze over her shoulder. He sucked in his own ragged breath and willed his heart to resume beating. This wasn't sexy vengeance, but sexy benevolence at its best. Delia wasn't going to climb those stairs naked, but naked in high heels. CHAPTER SEVEN "First one in gets to call the shots," Delia said, brave words that were a show of bravado more for her benefit than Jackson's. She forced her feet to move, took the steps to beside the swan bed without glancing over her shoulder to see if he followed. But she smiled when she heard his footsteps on the wooden floor a moment later. The air grazed her bare skin as she shimmied into the bed. Jackson emitted a sound that was suspiciously like a growl, as she stretched out on the smooth comforter. There was an expression of such wanting on his face that she let her eyes shut for the briefest of instants, capturing his expression in her memory. This moment was her fantasy, the way she'd always longed to see Jackson, his handsome face sharp with his desire, his need for her burning in his dark eyes. Too bad he wasn't burning for the real her. But she quickly brushed the thought away. Motioning to the champagne, she said, "Will you do the honors?" "I'm not thirsty. I want you." His possessive words kicked up her heart rate, fueled her boldness. "You're welcome to join me, but why don't you undress first? Not that I wouldn't enjoy that privilege myself, but I'd rather watch you strip for me." He flashed her such a daring grin that the old saying "Be careful what you wish for.…" flickered through her head. Then he toed off his shoes, shrugged away his jacket and began a very erotic performance. Crisp white shirt and black dress slacks contrasted to make his shoulders seem a mile wide before they veed into a trim waist. She'd seen him in a variety of attire during their internship, from the neat casual clothes he wore on campus to his favorite scroungy jeans and work boots for getting down and dirty on various work sites. But Delia had never even imagined Jackson like this. He didn't hurry, but measured his actions, unfastening each button to let her enjoy the emerging expanse of tanned chest, to discover the swirls of black hair nestled in the muscular ridges. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Removing his cufflinks was a prelude to a display of shifting muscle as he dragged the shirt down his arms, revealed the definition of tanned biceps that was nothing short of scrumptious. Then he popped open his fly. Slacks parted, and in the instant it took Delia to blink, he shoved his trousers down long gorgeous legs to reveal... Mmm. A brief man. An impressive erection strained against white cotton, and her eyes fluttered shut again to etch this image in her mind, to imprint the way heat pooled between her legs at the thought of being granted the freedom to explore Jackson's gorgeous body at her leisure. Her fantasy, here in real time. For tonight at least. And then he kicked aside trousers and briefs and stood before her, all tanned skin and sculpted muscle, all hard, strong male. "Mind if I join you?" he asked with a smile.
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She could only shake her head. He slipped into the bed, his tanned body contrasting sharply with the bright white of the bedding, but to Delia's surprise, and disappointment, he didn't take her into his arms. "May I undress you?" he asked instead. She extended her foot. "Please do." Slipping off one strappy sandal with great ceremony, Jackson leaned over and pressed his mouth to her ankle. His warm lips glazed over her skin, making her shiver, making him smile. There was no question that he liked the way she reacted to him. He removed the other shoe and kissed his way up her calf, sexy, tender openmouthed kisses that melted her insides to jelly. His mouth trailed up her thighs, his strong fingers kneading her skin, guiding her so he could continue his sexy exploration, pleasure her with his skilled mouth. His tenderness touched her. His need overwhelmed her. She wanted this man to want her, not some fantasy woman. She wanted to spark that hunger in his eyes more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. She had the wild impulse to confess who she really was, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out. What if he rejected her? She'd played a major game with him and at the very least he'd have to work through surprise before understanding that she'd plotted this ruse to overcome her inhibitions and be the woman she wanted to be in his arms, before he could even decide whether or not to forgive her. And would he? She honestly didn't know. He hadn't been interested in the real her and nothing had changed to suggest he might welcome her advances now. Nothing except her longing for him and the caring, arousing way his lips skimmed her skin. She'd thought her plan was perfect...but now she wasn't so sure. Jackson wanted more than a night, but with a woman who didn't exist. Was honesty worth losing her one and only chance to make love to her fantasy man? Each hot stroke of his mouth urged her to say no. Enjoy the moment. Delia shushed her conscience and did exactly that. Zeroing in on her most intimate place, Jackson pleasured her. With his lightly stubbled cheeks tickling her skin, he wiped all thoughts from her head. She couldn't think when her blood slowed to a languid pace in her veins, when each beat of her heart resounded through her body like the rumble of a sonic boom. Each caress, each delicious stroke wove a spell over her senses that made reasoning, let alone worrying, impossible. Delia could do nothing more than surrender to his possessive touch and marvel at the unrestrained way her body responded to him. The reality proved so much more fulfilling than any fantasy she'd ever had. Delia was ready for this man with a need even she hadn't fully appreciated. A need so strong that she'd conceived of this crazy plan to be with him. It felt as though she'd waited her whole life to feel his skin hot against hers, to know the feel of his silky hair beneath her fingertips, the tight strength of those broad, broad shoulders. Moisture puddled between her thighs. Her muscles melted until she trembled...her pleasure mounted until all she could do was moan softly and arch her hips. And then she simply opened up, her entire body engulfed in a downpour of sensation that stole the breath from her lungs.
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Jackson idly traced circles on her stomach, sometimes veering down to follow the depression along the juncture of her thigh. A sensitive place, and one that made her twitch rather ungracefully. He smiled, only lifted his gaze when she gasped. "Hello, are you back now?" He looked immensely satisfied with himself. Another stroke of his fingertip. Another twitch. His smile deepened. "Let's make love." Her whispered words fluttered out on the edge of a sigh. Propping himself up on an elbow, Jackson frowned, a look that roused her from her dreamy state. "We have a problem." "I brought plenty of condoms." His expression grew thoughtful. When he made no move to extract himself from between her thighs, she felt the silence lengthen with her every heartbeat. "It's not a protection problem," he finally said. There was something about the inevitability she heard in his voice, an emotion mirrored in his eyes, that sent alarm bells clanging in her head. "Then what's wrong?" "I won't make love to you with deception between us." Those alarm bells were ringing wildly now, but still Delia cooled her reaction, wouldn't let herself overreact, when he couldn't possibly know.... "Deception?" He seemed curiously reluctant yet very resolute. When he finally spoke, it was as though he'd measured his every word against her reaction. "I know who you really are, Delia." CHAPTER EIGHT Delia's world went suddenly, horribly still. Every echo of pleasure drained away in such a physical rush that she actually felt dizzy. Jackson's admission filtered through her, stunning, yet not quite bridging the distance from disbelief to acceptance to utter horror. She wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight of his face, that resigned expression that revealed he wasn't pleased about confronting her yet hadn't been able to do anything else. But she couldn't shut out the sight of the man she knew. The man she'd wanted with all her heart for so long. The man she thought she'd deceived. Though nothing had changed about their positions, or their expressions — indeed they both stared at each other as though caught soundly in the harsh glare of the truth — Delia no longer had the cover of her disguise to conceal her. She was exposed beneath Jackson's dark eyes. Visible in all her naked, postorgasmic glory.
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Something had to break before she dissolved into a humiliated puddle right before his eyes, and since he didn't seem to be gearing up for any other shocking revelations... "How long?" "Since the night you told me the Olde River House was your favorite place to eat." "You knew it was me because of one comment? What's so unusual about the Olde River House?" "You knew exactly how many bricks were used to construct the facade." Delia could only stare, though she was very grateful for his smug expression that distracted her with a good dose of righteous disbelief. "How could you possibly connect that to me? We've never even discussed —" "I overheard you telling Dr. Fairfax's design team about the construction while we were at dinner the night they came to town." "Jackson, you were sitting all the way across the table." All traces of smugness faded from his handsome face and he grew so serious that Delia braced herself for what was coming next. "I don't have to be sitting next to you to notice what you're doing." There was something so solemn about this admission, so unexpected, that she couldn't believe she'd heard him right. "What's that supposed to mean?" He glanced down at where his hand hovered above her thigh and traced another circle as though to make a point. "It means I've been paying very close attention to you." "You...you have?" He leaned forward and pressed a kiss where he'd traced that circle. She quivered in what was becoming a predictable reaction to his touch. "I have." She wanted to ask if that's why he'd played along with her game while she'd established her cover as RisquéHistorian and laid the groundwork for her fantasy seduction. But she couldn't make her voice work. "I want you, Delia." But that didn't explain why he'd never tried to turn their friendship into anything more and she finally managed to say so...while she tried to scoot away. He leaned across her legs so she couldn't move. "Hear me out. You promised." She had indeed. Another one of his slick moves. Here she'd thought she'd been the one with all the tricks up her sleeve and he'd been snaring her soundly in a trap of his own. She scowled. He traced another circle. "I didn't want you to lump me in with the other million guys who chase you because you're beautiful. I wanted you to feel comfortable enough to pursue me. And you did, online, as RisquéHistorian." "I do not lump..." she began to defend herself, but when Jackson arched a dark eyebrow, she trailed off, forced herself to entertain his point.
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I wanted you to feel comfortable enough to pursue me. He'd known how much she wanted him, so much that she'd been willing to risk everything, including his friendship, with her crazy plan, and he'd been willing to wait for her, to play along, just so she could transition from friends to more at her own pace. Delia couldn't seem to wrap her brain around the fact that they might actually have a chance to consider tomorrow. "Jackson, I was convinced you weren't interested, that you didn't see me as serious girlfriend material." "Because of the way you looked?" "You sound surprised. I have had the problem before and you have to admit that I'm a polar opposite from your last girlfriend." A woman who'd looked like a delicate china doll with her shiny black hair and big dark eyes. "True enough." Another circle. Another shiver. "But it's me we're talking about, Delia. I'm not just some man drooling after you. I'm your friend." "Is that why you played along?" He nodded. "Why did you pretend you were the Risqué Theatre's historian? And where did you learn all that stuff you told me about this place?" "Were you impressed?" "Very." She smiled. "It seemed a good way to get your attention. We're both interested in the theater and my neighbor worked here for forty-five years. She's been telling me all about the place. Not the facts that Dr. Blake quizzes us on, but all the juicy gossip. When the theater isn't undergoing construction, there's a plaque in the hallway with her name on it. She's the employee with the longest-running tenure." "Esther Lou Quincy. I remember. Dr. Blake told us about her." She nodded. "That explains where you got all that good trivia. But how did you get Dr. Blake and Dr. Fairfax to let you borrow the theater tonight?" "Blatant lies. I told them I wouldn't have a date for their wedding if they didn't give me the key to the place," she explained. "You know Dr. Blake. She's a mush. As soon as I told her I was tired of waiting for you to ask me out and wanted to give you a nudge, she handed over the key. And it did help that the security guard needed the night off." Jackson laughed. Then before she even realized what he was about, he'd rolled on top of her, pressing her back into the soft bedding. Delia might have gasped had she not been so caught up in the feel of his hard body against her. As it was, she sighed at the suddenness of his movement and then all thoughts fled as he brought his mouth down on hers. His urgency stole the sound from her lips and drove home what Delia hadn't been able to absorb yet — Jackson had been waiting to make love to the woman he wanted. Not the bold and daring RisquéHistorian, but her, Delia, his intern partner and friend.
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Slipping her arms around his neck, she savored the warm heat of shared breaths, the knowledge that he'd been willing to wait for her. Arching her body against him, she let him know with touch just how long she'd been waiting for him. "Make love to me, Jackson." Delia didn't need to ask twice. With sultry whispers and longing, she finally got to watch Jackson's face sharpen with his desire, hear his voice as he reached his pleasure, got to savor her response to this man and the magic they made together. And as they lay in each other's arms afterward, sated, their heartbeats racing, their bodies clinging skin to skin with the sheen of their exertions, Delia stroked the damp hairs from his temple and marveled at the turn of the night's events. "You're not angry that I misled you?" she asked. He leaned into her touch, a response that conveyed how satisfied he was more than words ever could. "Technically, I misled you, too, so I'm willing to call it even. As long as I don't have to settle for just one fantasy night." Delia snuggled into his arms with a smile. "I think we can look forward to a fantasy future, instead."
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Mistress of His Heart by Deborah Hale Years ago, the father of heiress Rosemary Greenwood forbade her to marry Merritt Temple, a young soldier, because of his lack of fortune. Now Merritt has returned to her small village a rich widower with an infant son. Rosemary is too proud to tell him that her family has been left penniless by her father's spendthrift ways and are struggling to save the family home from creditors. But Merritt has a secret of his own... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE "That must be him!" Ivy Greenwood dug an elbow into the muslin-draped ribs of her sister. "Ouch!" Rosemary peered in the direction Ivy had been looking. On the far side of Lathbury's assembly hall, she could make out only vague shapes of people. Both necessary economy and a stubborn crumb of vanity prevented Rosemary Greenwood from wearing spectacles. Just because she was 24 and still unwed didn't mean she'd surrender tamely to oldmaidenhood. "Don't stare! He's looking this way!" Ivy fluttered her fan protectively in front of their faces. "Who is he?" Rosemary raised her own fan. "And why shouldn't we look at him if he may look at us?" "He's coming this way!" Rosemary checked her impatience with her sister's high spirits. There'd been little in their lives of late to excite any emotion but worry. "Since you refuse to identify the gentleman, I suppose I must wait for an introduction." "It's the new master of Heartsease, of course." Ivy tossed her red-gold curls. "I hear he's widowed, and he must have an enormous fortune to afford such a grand estate." Rosemary cast a sidelong smile at her sister. "So you've set your cap for him, sight unseen?" "You must admit it would solve all our problems." "And spawn a host of new ones," muttered Rosemary. To her, the words wealthy widower did not conjure up an attractive picture. She glanced over the top of her fan to see the new master of Heartsease bowed before them. A tall fellow, many years younger than she'd expected, his broad shoulders filling out a well-tailored coat. "Ladies, forgive my impertinence in speaking to you without a proper introduction." The deep musical timbre of his voice set a swarm of bees buzzing inside Rosemary. Though she'd tried to forget, she never heard a man's voice without comparing it unfavorably to this one. "You probably don't remember me." He glanced up, catching Rosemary in a silver-gray gaze at once hard as tempered steel and soft as a summer mist. "I assure you we're acquainted. Merritt Temple is my name." Not remember? Rosemary might have laughed out loud, except a lump the size of a toasted crumpet had risen in her throat.
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Not that Merritt Temple looked exactly as she remembered him. Seven years ago, he'd been an awkward, ardent boy. Now he was very much a man. Crisp brown hair was swept back from a high brow that suggested cleverness. His lanky figure had ripened into its promise of spare, vigorous manhood, and the harsh Iberian sun had bronzed and weathered his compelling angular features. Those were not the changes that made Rosemary's heart lurch in her breast and her bones melt like butter on that toasted crumpet. Rather it was an air Merritt Temple carried about him now. Battle-hardened and subtly dangerous, yet tempered with an edge of wistful melancholy, as if he'd been wounded by something or someone in the past and had never fully recovered. Could she have been that someone? CHAPTER TWO As he faced the woman who'd broken his heart when it was still fragile enough to break, Merritt Temple strove to address Rosemary Greenwood and her sister with casual courtesy. Even as his pulse thundered in his ears like a volley of artillery. "I was at school with your brother, Thorn. He kindly invited me to holiday at Barnhill on several occasions. I have many pleasant memories of those visits." Merritt failed to mention they were among the few pleasant memories in his life. Three brief summers with the Greenwoods had been his only experience of belonging to a family. Perhaps that was what had drawn him back to Lathbury to raise his son. As he stared at Rosemary Greenwood, whose girlish charm had ripened into willowy golden beauty, Merritt knew it was the vain hope of seeing her again that had lured him. "Mr. Temple!" Ivy Greenwood cried. "Thorn will be delighted to hear you're the new master of Heartsease. Isn't this a marvelous surprise, Rosemary?" "I'm quite overcome." Not with pleasure, apparently. If she'd been happy to see him, her delicate features might have pinkened, as they used to when he pretended to steal a kiss. Instead they paled and her luminous blue-green eyes clouded with dismay. "Wh-what brings you to back Lathbury after all these years, Mr. Temple?" He resisted a mad urge to blurt out the truth. "I have an infant son whose mother died shortly after he was born. His health has been a concern to me. The doctors advised wholesome country air." "A baby!" exclaimed Ivy. "I have no patience with infants but my sister dotes on them. Don't you, Rose?" Rosemary's graceful tawny eyebrows drew together in a look of distress that Merritt ached to comfort. "Dear Mr. Temple, we are heartily sorry for your loss. Now to be anxious over your son's health, too. You have my deepest sympathy on both accounts." As he accepted her words of consolation, Merritt berated himself for the vilest cad. How dare he impose on Rosemary's tender sympathy when his heart held more guilt than grief? Behind them, the musicians struck up a lively tune — one to which they'd danced on a distant summer evening. He longed to ask if she might again, for the sake of an old friendship. But did he dare risk the blissful hazard of her touch?
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*** Rosemary recognized the lilting melody. As if it had been yesterday, she recalled the sweet felicity of dancing with Merritt Temple. Did he remember, too? Or did she only imagine the far-off look in his eyes? If he asked her to dance again for old times' sake, how would she answer? She must refuse, of course, politely but firmly. Even if Mr. Temple didn't hate her, which he must, there could be nothing between them, now. For the opposite reason such a connection had been impossible seven years ago. As Merritt started to speak, she opened her lips to decline his invitation. "Will you do me the honor of this dance…Miss Ivy?" Ivy? CHAPTER THREE "Me?" Ivy looked as bewildered by Merritt's dance invitation as Rosemary felt. "I wish I could...but...I've injured my ankle." She pushed Rosemary forward. "My sister will be happy to take my place." The force of that shove sent Rosemary staggering into Merritt's arms. Something else kept her from pulling away as quickly as propriety demanded — all the nights she'd fallen asleep longing for one final embrace. "Take care, Miss Greenwood, the floor's a trifle uneven." His large capable hands closed around arms left bare by her short sleeves. Once such a mishap would have left him touchingly flustered. Now he reacted with cool aplomb. Rosemary wanted to detest him for it. How dare he remain imperturbable while stirring her emotions to such a pitch? "I beg your pardon, sir." She pulled away from him. "You won't wish to squire such a clumsy partner." "On the contrary." He extended his arm. "You could roll down a hill into a brook and make it look graceful." He gave a warm chuckle, exploding her fancied slight into shimmering fireworks. "As I recall, you once did." Rosemary remembered how mortified she'd been and how enraged when Merritt laughed — what a silly, self-important creature she'd been! Now she laughed, too, and took his arm. As they danced, Rosemary struggled to keep her mind on the steps. Later they drank punch, and reminisced. Like a flower emerging from beneath the snow after a long winter, Rosemary felt herself warmed to life by the spring sun. "I must go." Merritt sounded reluctant to part. "I grow uneasy if I'm long away from my boy. May I call on you tomorrow?" "No!" cried Rosemary. "Thorn's away...and..." What could she tell him? Anything but the truth.
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*** Miss Greenwood didn't wish to renew their acquaintance. Merritt despised his weakness in caring. Clearly his heart hadn't grown as impervious as he'd hoped. He'd been a fool to imagine she'd refused him seven years ago solely because he'd been poor. More likely she'd considered him a friend, but shrank from the prospect of him as a lover. The wealth he'd inherited from his late wife couldn't change that. "Another time, perhaps." He willed his hurt not to show. Rosemary shook her head to discourage even that vague possibility. "The house isn't fit for guests. We're packing for an extended stay in Bath." "I'm sorry to hear it." Merritt tried to sound indifferent. "Will you be leaving soon?" "Within the fortnight." "How fortunate we should meet here and renew our acquaintance before you go. Good evening, ladies. Enjoy your stay in Bath." When he turned to leave, Ivy called. "Wait, Mr. Temple! We aren't well disposed to entertain, but we'd welcome an invitation to Heartsease. Wouldn't we, Rosemary?" "No, we mustn't intrude while Mr. Temple is busy getting his household in order." Resolved not to utter a word of persuasion, Merritt heard himself say, "I'd welcome the company. I know nobody else in Lathbury and I've always been backward about striking up acquaintances." Ivy ignored her sister's glare. "Send word when you want us and we'll come." CHAPTER FOUR "I wish I'd been born an orphan!" Rosemary pulled her cloak tighter. The spring evening was chilly and the walk back to Barnhill rather long. "I'm a better sister than you deserve." Ivy blew on her fingers. "Turning down Mr. Temple's offer of a drive on the spurious pretext that Lady Gorham would see us home." "The walk will do your injured ankle good," snapped Rosemary. "Speaking of spurious pretexts. "Do you know how many dance invitations that cost me?" Ivy said. "It would serve you right if I did nothing more to promote this match between you and Mr. Temple." "I do not want you matchmaking between Merritt Temple and me!" Ivy stopped in her tracks. "Why ever not?" Rosemary fought to calm her overwrought emotions. "When Merritt Temple had no prospects, I heeded Father's bidding to discourage him. I make no apology for that. It was prudent. Now that our positions are reversed — he is rich and we are not — I refuse to pursue him like some contemptible fortune huntress." "You still care for the man, but you won't have him because he's rich?" Ivy shook her head. "That's the silliest thing I ever heard."
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How could she make her sister understand, Rosemary wondered, when her own heart remained unconvinced? *** Merritt paced the gallery of Heartsease with his infant son in his arms. "What do you think, Harry? Will Miss Greenwood come to see you or was Papa foolish to send for her so soon?" oblivious to his apprehension, the child lavished a toothless smile upon Merritt and chortled. "You're right. It's silly of me to give a damn if she comes or not. And monumentally absurd to think the fortune we inherited from your mama would impress Miss Greenwood. What was I thinking?" He pulled a face at the baby, who batted his nose. "It makes no difference, does it, old chap? As long as we have each other, who needs the nuisance of a woman in our lives? We'll be the most exclusive gentleman's club, with only two members." Six-month-old Henry Percy Temple crowed his approval of the scheme. Through the gallery windows, Merritt saw his carriage drive up the lane. Surely it couldn't have returned from Barnhill so soon if the Greenwood sisters had accepted his invitation. In spite of his protestations to Harry, Merritt's stomach seethed. "Let's go ask Tom what excuse they gave." He sighed, knowing Harry would not count it a weakness. "Perhaps they'll come another day." Again Merritt cursed his impatience. He knew Rosemary was reluctant to renew their acquaintance on even a casual basis. Appearing overeager wouldn't endear him to her. He had so little time, though. The Greenwoods would be leaving for Bath soon and he'd been counting on Rosemary's help to get settled at Heartsease. "If she misses out on meeting you, handsome fellow, it's her loss entirely." As he strode into the entry hall, Merritt stopped dead in his tracks and almost dropped the baby. CHAPTER FIVE As Rosemary Greenwood stepped into the entry hall of Heartsease, she saw Merritt Temple an instant before he noticed her. In that fleeting glimpse, all her quiet, hopeless yearning of seven years multiplied a hundredfold. For she had caught him in an unguarded moment with his son. His formidable features had relaxed, and his brooding gray eyes twinkled with intimate laughter. All his height and lean strength signified only to protect the tiny, fragile, cherished being he cuddled in his arms. When he caught sight of them, Merritt froze, staring at her and Ivy as if they were unwelcome apparitions. Perhaps he'd only sent his carriage as a polite gesture after all, hoping they would refuse as they'd declined his offer of a drive last night. Why had she let Ivy convince her to come? Just then the baby looked up, smiled broadly and held out his arms. And Rosemary lost her heart to a second Mr. Temple. "Oh, Merritt!" She flew the length of the entry hall, hardly mindful that she'd called him by his given name. "You're too modest, as ever. Why didn't you tell us you had the most beautiful baby in England?"
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The child proved as susceptible to flattery as older, wiser gentlemen. He wriggled in his father's arms, straining toward Rosemary. Merritt handed him to her with the air of a miser surrendering his most precious treasure. "You mightn't have thought him handsome if you'd seen young Harry when he was born." Merritt sighed. "A tiny red scrap of a thing, not expected to live. He's proven a valiant fighter, though, my boy." "He looks in the pink of health now," Ivy assured Merritt as Rosemary kissed and cooed, not caring that she was making a perfect idiot of herself. Merritt shook his head, an anxious look clouding his distinguished features. "The doctors say his lungs aren't as strong as they might be. Harry's nurse claims it's my fault for not allowing him to cry himself to sleep. No doubt she's right, but..." "The woman's an unfeeling beast!" snapped Rosemary. "To let a motherless babe cry himself to sleep — what barbarity!" "I'd hoped to hire a replacement once we get settled," Merritt admitted. "But the woman is steady and capable. I fear I might do worse, having not the faintest idea how to engage servants. My past hasn't equipped me for my new station, I'm afraid. The staff I brought from London is hardly sufficient for this large an estate." "Rosemary will help you engage some good people," said Ivy. "Won't you Rose? She's seen to the running of Barnhill for as long as I can remember." Rosemary shot her sister a look that demanded she say no more. Much as she wanted to help Merritt and his little son, how could she come here day after day and taunt herself with a vision of the life she might have had? A life that was now far beyond her reach… CHAPTER SIX Had he thought Rosemary Greenwood a beauty in their youth? Merritt couldn't deny it. As she stood there in his home, with his child snuggled in her arms, she eclipsed even the shimmering perfection of his memories. Time had sculpted away the girlish roundness of her face, leaving features of exquisite delicacy. The gold of her hair had mellowed to the hue of dark honey. The years had seasoned her nature, too, subduing youthful arrogance while cultivating tolerance and kindness. How easy it would be to lay his heart at her feet again, leaving her no choice but to tread on it. He must proceed with caution, to protect himself if she could not care for him and to avoid frightening her off if she was disposed to learn. But how cautious could he be with only a fortnight to win her? Seeing Harry's eyelids droop as he nestled against Rosemary's softly rounded bosom, Merritt envied his son. "I must teach Harry better manners than to fall asleep in the company of lovely ladies." He lifted the baby out of Rosemary's arms, savoring the brief contact between his hands and hers. "I trust you'll excuse him on account of his callow youth." Rosemary gazed at the child with wistful eyes. "Must you put him to bed?" "This is his usual nap time." Though he hated to deny her anything, Merritt treasured Rosemary's obvious partiality for his son. "An orderly schedule for Harry is one point on which his nurse and I agree. If you ladies
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would care to walk in the garden, I'll join you once I've put this young man in his cradle. Later we can have tea. My cook's a jewel, bless her heart, though she needs a reliable scullery maid." When he ventured into the garden 10 minutes later, Merritt found Rosemary by herself, wandering under an avenue of linden trees in blossom. "Ivy says her ankle is still bothering her," she explained, a soft blush warming her cheeks. Did he dare offer Rosemary his arm? Much as he longed to, Merritt thought better of it. Instead he set off on his own, slowing his steps when he realized she meant to accompany him. "This is a marvelous garden, Mr. Temple. Think what jolly times Harry will have playing among the trees and flowers." Picturing her in a gleeful game of hide-and-seek with a five-year-old Harry left Merritt in a daze of joy…and fear. He must not torment himself longing for what might never be. "Thank you for coming today." He seized on that tiny scrap of encouragement. "I know how busy you must be." As they emerged from the linden arbor, an aromatic fragrance enveloped them. Reaching toward a spiky shrub just beginning to bloom, Merritt broke off a stray of delicate pale blue blossoms. "Rosemary." He offered Miss Greenwood her namesake flower. "For remembrance." She accepted the token, turning it over and over in her hand. "Did you hate me?" she whispered. "For treating you so badly?" CHAPTER SEVEN "H-hate you?" The very thought made Merritt bilious. "Never!" Sometimes he'd wished he could. It might have been easier to live with hate than endure the delicious torment of unrequited love. "You were right to act as you did." Rosemary fumbled the spray of flowers and almost dropped it. "I was?" Merritt nodded. "I understand now that a marriage of unequal fortunes places an intolerable burden on both parties. I wouldn't have wished that on either of us." He left her to draw the obvious conclusion that since they were now on a similar financial footing, the impediment between them had been removed. The stricken look on Rosemary's face told him he'd misspoken though he could not fathom how. Clearly his want of fortune hadn't been her only reason for spurning him seven years ago. He tried to mend what he'd marred. "What transpired between us as children is long in the past, my dear. I hope it will not prevent us from being friends now." "Friends?" she echoed. "Of course. I will always think of you with the fondest friendship, dear Mr. Temple." When her bewitching lips formed the words fond and dear, it took every ounce of self discipline at Merritt's command to curb the urge to take her in his arms. He longed to kiss lovely Rosemary with a man's kiss that might make her forget the gangly boy who'd once played at wooing her.
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But how could he risk the fragile treasure of her friendship in his quest for even sweeter prizes? With a chaste but affectionate touch, he tucked her delicate hand into the crook of his elbow. "Then I am a most fortunate man indeed. Shall we get back to the house before your sister succumbs to temptation and eats all our tea?" "An admirable suggestion." Her laugh sounded a trifle forced, but greatly relieved. "Now, we must catch up on the time we have been apart. Ivy and I read the thrilling newspaper accounts of your exploits with General Wellington. Did you enjoy soldiering?" As they walked back to the house through the green, fragrant garden, he entertained her with stories of his adventures and misadventures in the Rifle Brigade, collecting every dulcet trill of laughter, every sparkle of interest in her eyes like so many rare jewels he would hoard to cherish in the days ahead. "What a time you've been," complained Ivy when they rejoined her, though she hardly looked displeased. "I helped myself to some cake. Wait till you taste it, Rose — it's heavenly. Will you pour? This eating has left me parched." Rosemary cast a questioning glance at Merritt. "Please do the honors." He held her chair. "I recall many pleasant teas at Barnhill when you played mother." This set Ivy off on a round of remember whens while Rosemary concentrated on pouring the tea and Merritt watched her with jealous interest, indulging himself in the momentary pretense that she was mistress of his home. As well as his heart… CHAPTER EIGHT "Thorn!" cried Ivy, when their brother returned from London two days after their scrumptious tea. "Guess who's come to Lathbury and bought Heartsease?" Hawthorn Greenwood treated his sister to an indulgent smile, but Rosemary could see the fine lines of worry etched around his eyes. "Whoever it is, I wish they'd made me an offer on this place instead." A fearful void formed where Rosemary's stomach should have been. "Is it that bad, Thorn? Will we have to give up dear Barnhill entirely?" They'd been counting on letting the house while still drawing revenue from the estate. In the meantime, they could live cheaply in the spa town of Bath, with an unspoken hope that the girls might secure prosperous husbands there. "Father's debts were even more considerable than I'd thought." Thorn sighed. "But come now, it's only money. We're all young and fit, handsome and clever. We'll make our way in the world, and find some means to hang on to the ancestral pile in the meantime. Tell me the name of this mystery master of Heartsease whose advent makes Ivy look like a cream-fed puss?" Fearing she could not speak Merritt's name without betraying her feelings, Rosemary let her sister answer. "Why your old school friend, Merritt Temple!" Ivy told Thorn how Merritt had inherited a fortune from his late wife and his reasons for coming to Lathbury. "I must call on him soon," declared Thorn. "I'm delighted to hear of his newfound wealth, though I pity the poor fellow in the loss of his wife."
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Rosemary was not so sure about the latter. She recalled what Merritt had said in the garden at Heartsease, about unequal fortunes straining a marriage. At the time she'd been too dismayed on her own account to understand what he was telling her about his past. Thorn shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps Merritt can help me untangle the chaos of Father's affairs. He always was a clever, practical chap." "No!" The word burst out before Rosemary could stop it. "I won't have Mr. Temple worried with our problems. He has enough on his mind already." "Suit yourself." Thorn shrugged. "He's bound to find out sooner or later." Perhaps. But later they'd be safely away in Bath, where she would not have to suffer Merritt's pity. She could abide almost anything but that. "Speaking of Mr. Temple —" Ivy peered out the window "— I believe that's his carriage coming up the lane. I hope he's inviting us for another tea — I haven't eaten so many toothsome delicacies in ages." "It's a good thing we're soon bound for Bath," Rosemary observed tartly, "before you have urgent need of a corset." Ivy wrinkled her nose. "Since we'll be too poor to keep a carriage, I shall need all my strength for climbing the hills in Bath." She flitted off to speak to Merritt's coachman. A moment later she returned with a note in her hand. "It's addressed to you, Rose. I wonder what Mr. Temple wants?" CHAPTER NINE Opening her letter from Merritt with trembling fingers, Rosemary scanned the once-familiar hand. "Mr. Temple's had a falling out with Harry's nurse. He needs me to come right away and help him secure a new one." "Mrs. Jessup might do." Ivy referred to a young widow in the village who'd recently been delivered of a stillborn baby. They had called on her that morning with a quantity of broth and jelly they could hardly spare. Rosemary shook her head. "The poor creature's too frail and too young. Harry needs a mature, reliable nurse." She did not say, scarcely allowed herself to think, that Mrs. Jessup was also attractive and eligible for marriage. Not to mention how she might worship Harry, having lost her own infant. Selfish as it might be, Rosemary could not abide the thought of such a woman in Merritt's household. "Fetch my cloak," she bid Ivy. "I must go at once." Rosemary carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her apron pocket, knowing she would sleep with it under her pillow that night. *** "Rosemary! You're an angel of deliverance to come on such short notice when you must be so busy." If he found one pretext after another to occupy her, perhaps it would delay her family's departure to Bath. Merritt tried to resist the selfish inclination.
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"Harry's nurse said it's high time he was weaned anyway." He bounced the fretful baby in his arms. "I worry about spoiling his digestion, though. The poor little fellow has taken a cold. I told the woman not to keep his nursery fire so high — the place was an oven!" "Let me take him." Rosemary held out her arms and instantly Merritt felt his anxiety ease. She'd attend to the child far more tenderly than Harry's own mother would have. Merritt tried to stifle the bitter regret that gripped him whenever he thought of Sophia. The spoiled heiress had paid for her heedlessness with her life, after all. But he couldn't forgive her having almost killed their unborn child in the process. Nor could he excuse himself for failing to stop her. Rosemary cuddled the baby close, unmindful of his small runny nose soiling the shoulder of her dress. "If he's feeling unwell, he may not want milk anyway. Have Cook make up some good nourishing broth and see if he'll take any of that." While she fed and comforted Harry, they discussed Merritt's requirements for a nurse. "I believe I know the perfect person," she said at last. "Mrs. Olney reared several healthy children, all grown now. Then she had a late baby afflicted with some disorder. Though she tended to him devotedly, the child died not long ago." Merritt nodded. "I'll go at once and pay her a call. If she's as good as she sounds, I'll engage her services immediately even if I have to pay her a king's ransom." He paused. "May I impose on your kindness to stay with Harry while I'm gone?" CHAPTER TEN "Impose? Nonsense!" Rosemary laughed at Merritt's absurd suggestion that it would be an imposition to mind little Harry. "I should pay you for the privilege." If only he'd accept some currency other than money. Merritt looked at her, gratitude shimmering in his gray eyes, as though she'd done him the most valuable service in the world. For a moment, the weight of guilt she'd carried for seven years lightened. Merritt might not hate her, but that didn't mean she hadn't hurt him. "I feel so easy in my mind knowing Harry's in your care. I trust you'll tend him as attentively as I would, though with far more skill." After Merritt hurried off, Rosemary spent a blissful hour indulging the bittersweet fantasy that little Harry belonged to her. She rocked him, danced with him in her arms, sang and talked to him. Flattered him shamelessly and ached at the thought of having to let him go. Playing mother they called it when someone other than the lady of the house poured tea. Rosemary liked this kind of playing mother so much better, even if the baby was fretful and growing feverish. "Your papa loves you so much, Harry," she crooned. "You must get well quickly so as not to worry him." For a passing instant she thought of her late father with something less than devotion. If only Papa had managed his business affairs more prudently, she might have been free to encourage Merritt now without the taint of fortune hunting. Or if he'd had the foresight to recognize that a man of Merritt's abilities would be sure to get on in the world, no matter how modest his early prospects.
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"It's not his fault. It's mine." She sighed. "I never should have listened. I should have married your papa in spite of mine." *** "I believe Mrs. Olney will suit us very well." Merritt's relief at securing the services of such an able nurse evaporated when he saw Harry's flushed cheeks and sick eyes. A clammy hand squeezed his entrails hard. Could his son be in danger? Love rendered him vulnerable to the worst kind of hurt. He hadn't made a choice to love his son, any more than he made a conscious decision to draw each breath. Even knowing the risk, he couldn't stop now. And Rosemary? He had no choice about his feelings for her either. Should he brave the danger of declaring them? "There's only one problem." Merritt laid a cool hand on Harry's forehead. The child gave a strange hoarse cough. "Problem?" said Rosemary. "Mrs. Olney couldn't make arrangements to come until tomorrow." All the confidence with which he'd faced Napoleon's troops deserted Merritt in the face of his child's illness. "Harry won't miss the nourishment in his condition. Still, I wish I had someone to help me tend him tonight." Swaying to quiet the whimpering baby, Rosemary peered over the top of Harry's downy head. "Will I do?" Despite overwhelming temptation, Merritt heard himself say, "You? Preposterous!" CHAPTER ELEVEN "You?" Merritt looked at as though she'd proposed some debauchery. "Here for the night? Preposterous!" "Why? I'm good with babies — you said so yourself. And unless you keep a closetful of nursemaids, I'm the only one at hand. Besides, I want to. If I went home, I'd only toss and turn all night worrying over the poor wee thing." She had not often seen Merritt Temple angry. Now his dark brows knit in an ominous manner and Rosemary could picture him striking fear into the hearts of his enemies and subordinates. "Are you too innocent to understand, Rosemary?" he demanded. "An unmarried woman spending the night in the home of an unmarried man — think of your reputation." She refused to be cowed. "What difference does it make whether I'm here in the day or the night? I don't expect to get any sleep. Besides, what dissipation could we get up to with a sick infant to tend?" Unbidden images rose in her imagination. Images so vivid her cheeks flushed the same bright red as the baby's. Of herself in Merritt's arms. Of his lips pressed against hers. One hand pulling pins from her hair, the other... Rosemary swallowed hard. The other caressing her body through the light fabric of her dress. Perhaps cupped under her backside.
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Could she be catching the baby's fever? "For the last time, Rosemary — no. I will not compromise your reputation." "For the last time, Merritt — yes! I could send for Ivy to chaperon, but she's so excitable in a crisis, it wouldn't be worth the bother. Let me worry about my reputation. You worry about your son." The baby coughed again, a hollow bark that did not sound quite human. "Oh dear, it's the croup." Rosemary shook her head and cast Merritt a challenging look. "It'll worsen through the night. Fortunately, I know how to deal with it. Now, unless you propose to hoist me over your shoulder and carry me back to Barnhill kicking and screaming, which I assure you would do far more damage to both our reputations, I suggest you stop this pointless arguing and instruct your cook to set several shallow pans of water on her stove and close the kitchen doors." For a moment Merritt looked as if she'd boxed his ears. Then the daze lifted. "If you insist." "I do." How she wished she'd been able to say those words to him in front of a vicar. "Very well, then." His voice held a note of respect for a worthy opponent. "Thank you." He marched off toward the kitchen with a purposeful stride. Harry coughed again, then whimpered. "Poor darling." Rosemary nuzzled his cheek. "Let's change your linen, then take you down to the kitchen. The moist air should help you breathe." For all her brave protestations to Merritt, a shiver of fear snaked down Rosemary's spine. Would he ever forgive her if Harry got worse instead of better? Would she ever forgive herself? CHAPTER TWELVE Merritt Temple could only recall two nights in his life as long and anxious as this one. There had been the night of Harry's birth. And the night Rosemary Greenwood had told him he must try to forget her. Who'd have thought they would be together now, fighting for the life of his son? Rosemary had assured him over and over that croup was not uncommon in babies, nor as perilous as it sounded. Much as Merritt longed to believe her, he couldn't. Life had robbed him of too many loved ones, or those who might have loved him. "Will you hold Harry while I try to spoon a bit more sugared water into him?" Rosemary pushed a drooping golden curl off her brow. The steamy air of the kitchen had teased her hair into a tendriled halo. Her eyes were strained with fatigue and more than a little alarm. And she had never looked more beautiful to Merritt than at that moment. His defenses lulled by exhaustion and occupied with worry about his son, he wanted very much to tell her so. Before he could frame the words, another bout of coughing convulsed the baby. "Hush now, my boy, hush. It'll be all right."
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Harry whined and struggled for breath. Fear threatened to close off Merritt's windpipe, too. "There, there, Harry." As Rosemary rubbed the child's back, she sang him a lullaby. The sound of her voice seemed to lull Harry and relax his small body. Her nearness had the same effect on Merritt. "Will my son get better?" He couldn't conceal his desperate need for her reassurance. "Of course." A tired smile lit her face. "This young fellow will lead you a merry chase, one day." I hope you're right." His words erupted in a choked whisper. "Harry is the only joy my marriage afforded me. If I should lose him..." He swung away from Rosemary so she wouldn't witness the unmanly tear he could not check. *** As Merritt turned away from her, his wide shoulders bowed, cradling his sick child, Rosemary ached to gather them both to her bosom and heal their hurts. "Your only joy?" Could anything more tragic be said of a marriage? "Surely you mean Harry is the greatest joy your marriage afforded you." "Greatest...and only. He's been so singular a blessing, perhaps I was greedy to wish for more." Before Rosemary could protest, Merritt spoke again. "I was a curiosity to Sophia. After the papers made me out to be some kind of war hero, I became a trophy for her to collect. A challenge too quickly won, too soon tired of." If she'd married him when she should have, he would never have fallen prey to such a woman. Rosemary wondered how her heart could hurt so much and still continue to beat. If she labored the rest of her life, could she ever hope to redress Merritt Temple for the harm she'd done him? CHAPTER THIRTEEN In broken sentences and choked tones, Merritt sketched for Rosemary the misery that had been his marriage. Though she wanted to beg him to keep silent, she sensed it did him good to talk. Like piercing a tainted wound to drain the poison. At the very least, she owed him the courtesy of listening. "Sophia was disgusted to find herself with child. She'd been so much indulged all her life, she resented the bother it caused her and the restrictions it placed upon her. In her seventh month she took a fall while riding. Not enough to harm her if her time hadn't been so close. But it brought on early labor, nearly doing away with the child as well as herself." As if distressed by this account of his unnatural mother, the baby began his worst bout of coughing yet. Merritt stumbled, but quickly righted himself. "Bring him here." Rosemary sat down on the daybed in one corner of the kitchen. "We're both too tired to walk him anymore. You hold him upright while I rub his back." Merritt looked ready to protest, but weariness got the better of him. He dropped onto the daybed with Harry in his arms. Rosemary moved closer and began to pass her hand in gentle soothing circles over the baby's
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back. Partly to calm the child and partly to prevent Merritt telling her more than she could bear to hear, she began to sing. "Sing care away with sport and play, pastime is all our pleasure. If well we fare, for nought we care, in mirth consist our treasure." "Heartsease." Merritt mused on the name of the song and his new estate. "Will this place ever live up to its name for me?" His eyes seemed to ask her a question, or did her tired mind imagine it? "I pray it will. If ever a man deserved happiness, you do, dear Merritt." She sang the rest of the song, started another, then a third.... *** Rosemary woke to find herself leaning against Merritt's shoulder. Her hand had fallen from Harry's back to rest upon his father's lean thigh. Though Merritt's eyes were shut, he still held the sleeping baby securely to his chest. Rosemary tried to shift her hand, but it refused to budge. So she lingered there, soaking up Merritt's warmth, his scent, and his presence, thinking how sweet it might be to wake up beside him every morning. When he finally opened his eyes, she reluctantly sat upright and withdrew her hand from his leg. "Hear that?" she whispered. "Eh?" He struggled awake, then froze, listening. The kitchen was quiet save for the soft hiss of their breaths and Harry's clear, regular respiration. Merritt closed his eyes and sighed. "Thank God." "He's going to be fine." Rosemary's smile stretched her mouth so wide it hurt. Suddenly nothing mattered. Not fortune, or lack of it. Not pride or the past. Only life, hope, and love. Lifting her face to Merritt's, she silently begged him to kiss her.… CHAPTER FOURTEEN From a deep pit of weariness and despair, Merritt's spirits soared to giddy heights. First his son sleeping peacefully, breathing with ease. Then Rosemary's lips presented for his kiss. Accepting her invitation, he inclined the brief distance between them and engaged her. His arms full of sleeping baby, he could not hold Rosemary or otherwise compel her in the slightest degree. Except with the restrained power of his devotion. Without words to confuse or obscure his meaning, he used his lips to tell Rosemary how much he'd longed for her, how hard he'd tried to forget her, and how miserably he'd failed in that commission. She responded with such innocent passion, Merritt's desire ignited like a keg of gunpowder struck by a spark. Reaching up, she cradled his face in her hands, caressing every line as if to imprint his likeness upon her fingertips.
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How had he mistaken her feelings for him? Her kiss, the likes of which Merritt had never dreamed, assured him that her love, her longing, and her bittersweet remembrance, were quite the equal of his own. A noise sent them flying apart as the cook blundered in. "Mr. Temple, are you still tending that poor babe? What a night you'll have had. How's he faring this morning?" "Very well." Merritt struggled to rise, conscious of his excessively tight breeches. Of Rosemary he asked, "Is it safe to put Harry down in his cradle now?" "By all means, Mr. Temple." She looked every bit as flustered as he, trying to pat down her hair and smooth the wrinkles from her dress all at once. "Will you stay to breakfast?" It was not the taste of sausages or poached eggs Merritt's mouth craved. "I must get home. In my anxiety for little Harry, I forgot to send word to Barnhill that I'd be staying the night. Thorn and Ivy will be frantic." She cast him a proprietary look that sent his heart winging skyward again. "And you must get some sleep." "A shave, too, I daresay. Very well, I'll dispatch you home in my carriage. You need a sound sleep after last night. Later, I'll send for you and we can…talk." "I look forward to it." Once Rosemary had gone, Merritt tucked Harry in his cradle, then threw himself onto the nurse's bed and slept. He woke to find Mrs. Olney changing the baby's linen. "'Afternoon, sir. I hear this young lad gave you a turn last night. How lucky Miss Greenwood was here to help. She's a smart lass. What an awful shame, her father losing his money. No doubt she and her sister will catch rich husbands in Bath — comely creatures. I say, is something amiss, sir? You look as if you've seen a ghost." Worse than a ghost. Merritt struggled to breathe. How could he have been so blind as to think Rosemary Greenwood truly cared for him? No wonder she'd insisted on staying the night. Now honor would compel him to wed her. No matter how much the notion sickened him… CHAPTER FIFTEEN For the 10th time in as many minutes, Rosemary left her packing to look out the window. Still no sign of Merritt's carriage. She'd slept with his letter and a spray of wilted rosemary under her pillow, perfuming her dreams. Waking hours later, she'd been surprised to hear no message had come from Heartsease. As the hours passed, she became increasingly anxious until finally she broke down and confided in Ivy. "Hurrah!!" Grabbing Rosemary's hands, Ivy danced her around the room. "I knew you two were meant for each other. Now you'll be happy and have a nursery swarming with babies. And Merritt will help Thorn settle our affairs." "No!" Rosemary pulled away. "I won't ask Merritt for a penny, not even if Thorn has to sell Barnhill. Though you might come and live with us until... What am I saying? Merritt hasn't even proposed to me."
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"He's sure to." "Then why hasn't he sent for me?" "Perhaps the baby's taken a bad turn and he's been too — Rose! Where are you going?" Without shawl or bonnet, Rosemary dashed from the house and ran all the way to Heartsease, fear nipping at her heels like a pack of hounds. She arrived disheveled and gasping for breath. The footman who admitted her didn't look alarmed. All sounded quiet and orderly in the great house. A few moments later, Merritt strode into the sitting room, unbearably handsome in crisp linen and a dark blue coat. Relief flooded Rosemary as she bolted into his arms. Or would have if he'd opened them to her. "Merritt, what's wrong? Is Harry worse?" "My son is fine. His new nurse has come." Good news on both counts. Why then did Merritt look so forbidding? "Thank heaven." Rosemary tried to quell her alarm. Perhaps Merritt was still tired from their sleepless night. "I grew worried when you didn't send for me." He crossed his arms. His eyes looked as though they'd been hewn from granite. "I thought it presumptuous to summon you when you have a perfectly good carriage at your disposal." "Not anymore. I should have told you sooner but...the reasons don't matter. We've had to give up our carriage and most of our servants. That's why we were going to Bath. My father lost all our money through mismanagement and bad investments. Now Thorn may have to sell Barnhill to satisfy Papa's creditors." Merritt listened without a word of sympathy...or surprise. "Marriage has always been a matter of fortune to you, hasn't it, my dear? A rich widower in the neighborhood must have presented a tempting target." < these all after you for pined still fool besotted the discovered when ?Especially pride. her lashed voice his in contempt> "Please, Merritt. You must believe me. I came to care for you again in spite of your fortune, not because of it." "Indeed? Is that why you took advantage of my son's illness to place us in a compromising position that would force me to wed you?" CHAPTER SIXTEEN Merritt actually believed she would use his child's illness as a pretext for trapping him into marriage? If he had struck her hard, Rosemary could not have been more deeply shocked or hurt. Or infuriated. "Why did you not simply ask for my help?" Merritt's indignant anger ebbed for a moment, exposing the wistful disillusionment beneath. "I'd have given it in an instant for the sake of your family's past kindness to me."
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Before Rosemary could frame a reply that would make sense to herself, let alone to him, Merritt fixed her with a blistering glare. "Congratulations. Your stratagem worked, Miss Greenwood. For the sake of my reputation I will wed you, and assist your family." How could he be talking of marriage when he obviously hated her now, as he never had before? "You may continue to live at Barnhill or go to Bath, whichever you please," announced Merritt, as if it made no difference to him where she went. "In any case, you will never be a wife to me in anything but name. Do you agree to those terms?" The tumultuous events of the past few days had stripped Rosemary of her emotional balance and comforting philosophy. She had come so close to the happiness that had long eluded her, only to find it now smashed at her feet, beyond repair. "No, Mr. Temple. I do not agree! If you could believe me capable of such dishonor, I would not wed you to save myself from starving." With that, she turned and bolted from his house before a storm of tears completed her humiliation. *** A few days later, in that same room, Merritt faced the dear friend of his school days. "Good to see you again, Merritt." Thorn Greenwood extended his hand. "Under other circumstances, perhaps. Have you come to call me out for sullying your sister's honor?" "A duel?" Thorn shook his head. "We both know you'd never do anything to dishonor a lady. Rosemary may slay me for coming here, but I cannot watch you make each other miserable for the rest of your lives." Merritt winced. His initial outrage had begun to rub thin. He couldn't bear the thought of making Rosemary miserable. Even if she'd done it to him. "Are you saying your sister didn't try to entrap me in order to save your family's fortunes?" "You can't believe that?" Merritt shrugged. "Worse things happen every day among the ton. If Rosemary is innocent, why did she wait so long to tell me of your situation?" Thorn gazed heavenward. "Nine days out of 10, my sister's the most agreeable creature in the world, but she has an iron spine that will stiffen at the most inconvenient moments. She couldn't bear your pity, and she had no intention of pursuing you because our fortunes are reversed." "Then why…?" Merritt struggled to word his question. If she hadn't meant to wed him for his money, why had Rosemary Greenwood come to Heartsease and taken his heart? CHAPTER SEVENTEEN "Why didn't Rosemary steer clear of you?" Thorn completed Merritt's question. "That's something you must ask her. I can only tell you this. My sister had a number of chances to wed — all worthy, prosperous
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gentlemen. Though I know she longs for a home and children, she turned down every match, much to my father's vexation." Merritt's rancor collapsed to rubble. He'd wed another woman, sired a child who filled part of the void in his heart. If Hawthorn Greenwood spoke true, Rosemary had been more constant to their doomed love than he. "What can I do, Thorn? After the things I said she'd never have me now. And I couldn't bear even a crumb of suspicion that she'd wed me for my fortune." Thorn strode to the window. "I have an idea, if you're willing to risk it?" Thorn outlined his plan. Merritt heaved a deep sigh. "What if she still refuses? I'm not sure I could stand to be cast aside by her a third time." "I'll leave you to think on it. Whatever you decide will not alter our friendship." A footman appeared at the door of Merritt's study. "Your man of affairs has arrived from London, Mr. Temple. He claims it's a matter of some urgency." *** "Rose?" Ivy tapped on the bedroom door. "Mr. Temple's here to see you." Crushing the sprig of herb in her fist, Rosemary cried, "Send him away! We're bound for Bath tomorrow and we shan't make a nuisance of ourselves in his life anymore." With those bold words, she threw herself onto the bed and dredged up a few more tears from eyes long since spent. The door swung softly open. Rosemary braced herself for Ivy's awkward attempts at comfort. Her head still buried in her arms, she asked, "What did Mr. Temple say when you told him go." It was not Ivy who answered, but a familiar masculine voice that set a swarm of bees buzzing inside her. "He insisted he'd come and speak to you, even if it caused a scandal to have a man in your bedchamber." "What do you want?" She kept her face averted, refusing to let him see how much he'd hurt her. As much as she'd once hurt him? came the muted plea of her conscience. Very well, they were even now! pride retorted. He drew a deep breath. "I've come to beg your forgiveness for misjudging you. I should have known better, but I've been betrayed too often by life to trust any promise of happiness. I also have too humble an opinion of myself to believe that you might love me on my own account." How dare he try to seduce her pardon with that poignant speech? She wasn't blameless, her conscience protested. If she'd confided in Merritt from the start, none of this would have happened. But having enjoyed his adoration in her youth, pride wouldn't allow her to admit an inferior position. "Is that all you came to say?" Merritt cleared his throat. "I also have some bad news.…"
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "Bad news?" Rosemary started up, not caring if Merritt saw her red eyes and tearstained face. "Has Harry taken ill again?" "Master Harry is quite well, apart from wanting more of your company." Merritt settled himself on the bed beside her. His smile reassured her that that his son was in no danger. It also thawed the last stubborn chill of her resentment. She reached for his hand. "Whatever is wrong, you know I will do anything I can to help. To begin with, I will pardon you for thinking me a fortune huntress if you can forgive me for being too proud to confide in you." "Done." Merritt raised her fingers to his cheek. "As for my bad news, it may turn out to be the best news of my life, depending on how you receive it." Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he offered it to her. "My man of affairs called the other day from London. It seems your father wasn't the only one whose investments suffered in these uncertain times." "You've lost your wife's money?" Rosemary murmured, not fully able to take it in. Life could be so uncertain. A person could be rich one day and poor the next. Healthy, then sick. Only love remained constant in spite of life's buffeting. The way her love for Merritt had persisted all these years. "I'm not destitute." Merritt looked curiously resigned to his fall in fortune, perhaps even relieved. "I'll have to make some economies, perhaps even sell Heartsease. If I throw my lot in with the Greenwoods, though, we might rescue Barnhill from tenancy." Merritt back at Barnhill again, and dear little Harry, too? Rosemary could think of nothing that would make her happier. Well, one thing, perhaps. As if he read her thoughts, Merritt added, "That would make it necessary for us to wed, of course." "I —" Her reply drowned in a tide of fresh tears. Fresh, wonderful tears. She mopped her eyes with Merritt's handkerchief. Perhaps he misread her reaction, for he reached out and pressed a finger to her lips. "Think on it, please. I told you life's promises of happiness had betrayed me, but I did know happiness once. Here. With you. In remembrance of that happiness I will hope until you give me reason to stop. I know it was asking a great deal that you forgive what I said the other day. On my own account, I would not. But for Harry's sake I must. He needs you as much as I do. And I know he will come to love you almost as much as I do. Please don't make my son pay for his father's folly." He seemed to steel himself to accept her answer. Lifting his finger from her lips he asked, "What do you say, Rosemary? Will you wed Merritt Temple even if he's poor again?" CHAPTER NINETEEN "I love my family." Rosemary twisted the damp handkerchief in her fingers as she considered Merritt's proposal. "And I feel a duty to help them by the only means open to me." That means could only be marriage to a rich man. Merritt took the blow, but refused to flinch. "I understand." "No, you don't. Even for the sake of duty, I cannot stoop to dishonor."
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He'd been an idiot even to entertain the notion. "To wed a man I couldn't love would be dishonor," Rosemary continued, "and these seven years have taught me the futility of trying to love any man but you, Merritt Temple. If you'll have me, I will be the happiest woman in the world to marry you." "If…?" He swept her into his arms and kissed her dizzy before she could recant. What fortune in the world could compare with the treasure of knowing Rosemary loved him for himself alone? "I'll do everything in my power to make you a good, thrifty wife," she promised when they paused to catch their breath. "There's only one luxury I will ever ask of you." "What might that be?" He'd fetch her the moon for a looking glass if she asked. "Babies, of course." She gazed at him with a sweet brooding smile. "A houseful, so Harry will have a whole battalion of small brothers and sisters to command." Recalling his own solitary childhood, Merritt could think of no better gift to give his son — a legacy infinitely more precious than all the gold in England. "You may have all the babies your heart desires if you will indulge me in one thing." "Yes?" "That we may name our first son Hawthorn?" From the doorway a deep cheery voice called, "An excellent idea! Hawthorn Temple, a most distinguished moniker." Merritt and Rosemary looked up to see her brother and sister shamelessly eavesdropping. "How long have you two been there?" Rosemary demanded. Ivy bounded onto the bed with them. "Long enough to catch the drift of your answer. Congratulaions!" . As she threw her arms around them both in a forceful embrace, Merritt held out his hand to Thorn and the two men exchanged a look that sealed them as brothers. *** The wedding took place three weeks later, following the publications of banns. Rosemary refused to let Merritt spend his money on an expensive special license to speed up the proceedings. Nor would she part from Harry long enough for a quick dash to Gretna Green. As she walked down the aisle toward him on her brother's arm, clutching a nosegay of fragrant blue rosemary flowers and white hawthorn blossoms, trailing green ivy, Merritt feared his heart would burst with happiness. But when his thoughts turned to the wedding night ahead, his stomach dropped into the toes of his Hessians. His first wife had been revolted by the very idea of her marital obligations. If he failed Rosemary tonight, Merritt wondered, how would he face himself in the morning? CHAPTER TWENTY
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The time had come. Merritt entered the bedroom clad only in his dressing gown to find Rosemary sitting on his bed — their bed — in her virginal white nightgown. The firelight burnished her unbound hair to a cascade of silken gold. Gingerly he settled himself beside her and after an awkward silence asked, "How much do you know about what must take place between us tonight — as husband and wife?" "I admit appalling ignorance, my dear. Thorn tried his best to prepare me. I thought the poor fellow would expire of embarrassment, so I pretended I was well informed on the subject." She spoke with such cheerful frankness, Merritt found himself laughing in spite of his apprehension. His laughter stopped abruptly when his innocent bride reached toward the neck of his dressing gown. Her delicate fingers swiped over the thatch of dark hair on his chest. "I've always considered curiosity the best antidote for ignorance. "Though he tried to stifle it, a sound broke from Merritt's throat — a deep purr of pleasure mingled with an even deeper growl of desire. He prayed his love for Rosemary would help him scavenge the restraint he'd need to proceed with her marital initiation at a temperate, gentle pace. If she persisted in rousing him like this, he feared passion might overpower his self-control. *** Not for the world would Rosemary admit she'd been more than a trifle frightened. First Thorn's gruff bashfulness, then Merritt's tender gravity had made her wonder what horrors might await her on their wedding night. In the end, she'd trusted in Merritt's kindness and in her love for him. He had not disappointed her. With the touching ardor of the boy he'd once been and the infectious passion of the man he'd become, Merritt tutored her in the art of love. Patient and gentle, he whispered that she made him eager and fierce. He touched her and kissed her in ways and places she'd never imagined until the moist heat of her femininity pleaded for something she could not name. Even the passing pain when he claimed her virginity was perfect, for it obliterated her guilt over the pain she'd once caused him. After seven long years apart, at last they were together. At last they were one. One in desire. One in ecstasy. When she sprawled against him, lazy and sated, their bed a white cloud suspended in a black velvet sky, he whispered, "Remember you promised to love me for richer, for poorer?" "As long as we both shall live." "The truth is, I never lost my fortune." "What do you mean?" "I wanted to know that you truly loved me. I wanted you to also be sure of yourself. For you to know that you married for love and not for fortune." "Now I have both," she said softly. Then, with a wanton chuckle, Rosemary kissed him deeply. "Make love to me again before morning and I'll forgive your deception."
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In the dying fire's glow, Merritt's smile shone bright as the crescent moon. "Is this how babies are gotten?" she asked. When he nodded, Rosemary rested her head on his chest with a sigh of perfect contentment. "Then I believe I fancy the means even more than I fancy the result."
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Mistaken for a Mistress by Jane Porter Argentinean Estrella Galván is one of Europe's top models, but she's much more than a pretty face. In Cannes to find a distributor for a documentary that's close to her heart, she instead finds herself in conflict with Carlo Gabellini, a man who thinks beautiful women are all the same... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One "You'd like me to what?" Estrella's husky voice couldn't hide her shock. This was the Gala Reception for the Marché International du Film, and the Marché, or Market, was the nuts and bolts side of the Cannes film festival. All the important people were here tonight. "It could be a good time." Heat scalded her cheeks. Ignoring the financiers gathered around them, Estrella met the arrogant Italian's gaze. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong woman." One of his eyebrows lifted. He seemed utterly oblivious of the others and the fact that this was a private reception, a very exclusive reception, for those with deep pockets and the right connections. The Market was the place where films were acquired, foreign rights were traded, and money changed hands. And the Market was the sole reason Estrella was in Cannes. "You are Estrella Galván. Model?" She felt as if he'd put a choke-hold on her. She could barely breathe. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to do business here." His light eyes ? a cool silver gray ? narrowed. "So am I." There was an embarrassed laugh and a low murmur of voices from the group of men. Some were amused, some uncomfortable, and Estrella's face burned from temple to chin. "I think we could have a good time," the Italian continued with the same appalling smile. "Call me." She stiffened as he pressed a satin-finished business card into her hand, and immediately tried to return the card. "I don't want it." "Why not? You look like a fun girl. I'm always interested in a party." Why was he doing this? What was he trying to achieve? She'd pulled a hundred strings to get an invite to the party tonight and she had just one chance ? this chance ? to interest these financiers in her film. The two-week festival was halfway over and so far she hadn't found anyone willing to back her project. The movie was everything right now. The children were depending on her. "I appreciate your vote of confidence," she said tightly, keeping her flawless smile in place, "but Italian men don't really do it for me." It was as if she'd plucked the string of a violin. The air hummed, a note of tension zinging between them and it was the most intensely physical sensation she'd known in years. "No?" His voice mocked her. "No." She could feel him, feel him inhale, feel him breathe, feel him think. She trembled inwardly, shaken by the intense undercurrent.
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"Yet your last lover was Italian." Her cheeks grew hotter. She shouldn't be surprised he knew about her love life. The paparazzi haunted her everywhere, especially when she'd dated Andre Mossimo, an Italian race car driver, earlier in the year. "Last being the operative word," she answered with a smile, and yet her eyes blazed with anger. "That's right. You dumped Andre after his tragic accident, didn't you?" That seemed to do it for the group of international financiers. The executives began to drift away in twos and threes and Estrella felt pure panic. She was losing them! Losing out on her chance to pitch her film, and there was no way people would think she had a serious subject after the way this man had embarrassed her in front of everyone. "Perfect," the Italian said as they were left alone. "Now it's just you and me." Estrella's eyes burned and she clenched her hands, crumpling the card he'd forced on her. She had a film without backing, an important documentary in need of distribution, and this man had just turned her into a joke. "How could you do that?" she choked, overwhelmed by the opportunity lost. She'd pinned so many hopes on tonight. She'd needed tonight so badly. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his black tuxedo trousers. "Do what?" But Carlo knew what he'd done and he knew exactly what he was doing. He'd heard Estrella, one of Milan's hottest models, had been angling for an invitation for the posh party, and curious, he'd been the one to get an invitation to her. Having seen the beautiful Estrella in action before, he knew how devious she could be, and he wanted to know just what the calculating Argentine model was up to now. Why was she in Cannes? What was she wanting ? or more correctly ? who was her prey? "Humiliate me like that," she shot at him, tears filling her eyes. He had to admit she was good. The tears looked genuine. If he hadn't known the anguish she'd put Andre through, he might have fallen for the shimmer of tears in her green-hazel eyes, but she, like his ex-girlfriend, Joy, was a top-notch manipulator. There was always something women like this wanted, and always someone new in the food chain. "Come on," he said, hailing a uniformed waiter and taking two champagne flutes from the silver tray. "It's not so bad. The night's young. The festival has just begun." "It ends in a week," she answered, refusing the champagne he held out to her. "Seven whole days. With your looks, you'll have no problem finding your next cash cow." "Cash cow?" Her voice had risen. She'd turned almost white. He shrugged and sipped his champagne. "Sugar daddy, then." "Is that what you think I'm doing?" "You are a beautiful woman."
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She flinched. "And that makes me a whore?" She sounded so shocked. Her injured tone reminded him of a Catholic schoolgirl. Carlo had to admire her skill. She was a far better actress than he'd expected. Or perhaps Joy had just made him more perceptive. "Hardly, cara. You're exquisite. You carry yourself like a princess." "And let me guess. You have a thing for princesses." "Spoiled princesses," he answered, tilting his glass, letting the bubbles rise. "But you're going to tell me you're neither." "You think you know me." "Oh, I know enough." Estrella felt sick to her stomach. There were times she hated her career, hated that her face and body were familiar to strangers, but she'd chosen her career at eighteen. Modeling in Europe had been her ticket out of Argentina, and once she left Buenos Aires behind, she'd never looked back. "You don't know me," she said coolly. Her late father had been Count Tino Galván. One of Argentina's wealthiest aristocrats, he had bought and sold small countries in a day. She knew all about arrogant, powerful men. "Then educate me," he said. "I'm dying to learn." His bold scrutiny made her want to run and hide. He wasn't just sizing her up. He was projecting, picturing what she looked like beneath the glittering evening gown, and yet she was sure he already knew what she looked like. She'd been splashed over half of Italy last year in a very revealing lingerie ad. "I don't like you." "And to think I went to all that trouble to get you an invitation to tonight's reception." Estrella felt as if she'd stepped in wet cement. "You sent the invitation?" He sipped from his flute and yet his gaze never left her face. "Yes." "Who are you?" He smiled. "I gave you my card." He had. She'd been clutching it, smashing it into a ball in the damp creases of her hand. She smoothed the thick ivory card and glanced down. Just a name. And a phone number. Nothing else. Then she read the name. Carlo Gabellini. Estrella felt positively light-headed. It couldn't be. He wouldn't be? "Something wrong, Miss Galván?" She looked up at him, her mouth drying. He couldn't be Carlo Gabellini. Carlo Gabellini was head of the investment bank that was Andre's main sponsor. Carlo was the money behind Andre's car, and he'd easily poured a couple million into Andre's account in the past year. Carlo's head tilted and he smiled almost benevolently. "Were you still Andre's mistress when you wiped out his bank account, or was that after his stroke?"
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Chapter Two Estrella lightly rubbed her bare arms, trying to smooth the goose bumps. Everything that could go wrong had. And now she'd been publicly humiliated by Italian venture capitalist Carlo Gabellini at one of the most prestigious parties in Cannes. "I never touched Andre's bank account." "Then where did the money go?" She shrugged impatiently. "Drugs, probably. That's why he had a stroke." "So you left him." "It was mutual." Why was she even having this conversation? "That's not what Andre said." Estrella fought the rise of nausea. She felt positively sick. "If you dislike me so much, Mr. Gabellini, why go to the trouble to get me invited to the party tonight?" "Curiosity." His broad shoulders shifted. "And prevention. I wanted to make sure you didn't take advantage of anyone here in Cannes. You did run a mean scam." "I don't scam people." She was unable to tear her gaze from Carlo Gabellini's face. He had such strong bones in his face, clean distinct lines that were almost architectural. "I'm here for the film festival." "The festival?" "I'm representing a movie." He whistled softly. "A movie. First a model. Now an actress. I didn't realize you had so many hidden talents." Estrella hated how he made her feel. She worked hard, and honestly, and she knew it. "Like half the others here tonight, I'm pitching the project." His eyes never wavered from hers, even as he took another sip from his champagne. "I knew you were looking for money." The insulting words he'd flung at her earlier, cash cow and sugar daddy echoed in her ears but she suppressed her revulsion. She couldn't make a scene here. She needed the people here tonight. "I'm looking for a buyer for the film ? and if I can't find that, then I'll have to distribute it myself, but like everything in this business, that takes money." "Well, that's easy then. You need money. I have money. Consider it done." She shivered as her beaded evening gown slid across her skin. Carlo Gabellini didn't respect her. In his eyes she was no better than sex-for-hire. And now he'd just offered her money. "What do you want, Mr. Gabellini?" "Oh, that's easy." His lips curved. His eyes narrowed as he smiled. "I want you." She looked at him for a moment, unable to find the words for the intensity of her emotions. "Me?" He nodded once, his black hair gleaming in the light from the ornate crystal chandeliers parading down the ballroom ceiling. "I want the same deal you made Andre."
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For a moment Estrella heard nothing but a roar of outrage in her head, and then she clamped down on her temper, reminding herself of the hundred orphaned girls she'd met on her trip to India. One hundred little girls without a future. One hundred little girls without a hope. But the documentary could change everything. The documentary could give those girls a chance. His gaze held hers. "How much do you need?" She lifted her chin. "How much do you have?" He suddenly laughed. "So tell me about your film then. Do you play the starring role?" "No." And suddenly she knew that she couldn't ? wouldn't ? continue this conversation another moment. She didn't have to defend herself, and certainly didn't have to be insulted. She'd get the money, and find the backing for One Heart, without losing her self-respect. Her gaze met his and she mustered a small, painful smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Gabellini." *** It was pouring outside the Majestic Hotel and Estrella did a double take as the slashing rain blurred the bright lights of Cannes. She walked a couple blocks in the rain before realizing she should have waited for a taxi. She was completely soaked and freezing and she still had a number of blocks to go. As she prepared to cross the street she saw a quick movement from the corner of her eye. Estrella felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. Her sixth sense warned her to turn around. She did. And she wasn't alone anymore. Two men were behind her, literally right behind her and Estrella knew that they wanted something. She glanced right, left, looking for another pedestrian but the rain blurred the lights and the street was dark and Estrella knew she'd made a terrible mistake walking to her hotel alone. Suddenly a dark Mercedes pulled up next to the curb. The tinted window on the passenger side went down. Carlo Gabellini leaned across the empty passenger seat. "Are you all right?" Estrella shuddered and pulled her wet wrap closer to her chest. "Good to see you, Carlo." His gray eyes narrowed. The car door opened. "Get in." The moment she was seated, he accelerated, pulling away from the curb. "You're at the Carlton, aren't you?" The Carlton Hotel was the place all the big American directors and producers stayed. "Yes." She was trembling so much it took her a couple tries to get the seat belt buckled. "Thank you." He shot her a quick side-glance. "We should call the police." "And tell them what? That two men approached me on a street corner?" "You could have been hurt." "I know." She lifted her head and her gaze briefly met his. "Thank you."
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Carlo's stomach tightened. Her eyes were beautiful. There was so much emotion there, so much intelligence and intensity. He'd seen the photographs of her, seen her on the catwalk plenty of times during the Milan shows, but her expression had always been hard and blank?empty. And he had assumed that she was as hard and empty on the inside. But he was just beginning to realize that she might be far more interesting than he imagined. That she might not be quite the cold, vapid model Andre had described. Carlo had the Carlton Hotel's valet take the car and with his tuxedo jacket wrapped around Estrella's bare shoulders he escorted her through the crowded, elegant lobby. She was still a bundle of nerves, but even jittery and wet, with her long hair slicked back from her face and his coat around her shoulders, heads turned. Carlo felt the stares and heard the whispers as they passed through the lobby, and he was sure Estrella did, too, but she said nothing, her shoulders back, head high, walking as if she hadn't a care in the world. At the elevator she slid his tuxedo jacket off her shoulders and handed it back to him. "I don't know quite what to say." Her expression was wary. "Tonight you destroyed me, and then saved me. Why?" Good question, he thought, conscious of the small group standing behind them, one of them a popular American movie star. "Fate," he answered with a shrug. Her jaw tightened. "I don't believe in fate." The gold elevator doors slid open and he put a hand on the doors to hold them for her. The group behind them was moving past, entering the elevator and Carlo stepped toward Estrella to let them pass. As he stepped toward her he caught a whiff of her perfume, a very light floral scent that somehow suited her perfectly. "Well, maybe you should," he whispered into her ear. Then he lowered his head and kissed her. Chapter Three Carlo kissed Estrella the way she'd always wanted to be kissed. His kiss felt absolutely right and he was absolutely wrong. And yet if she didn't think about him, just the sensation and the emotion ? it was all so good, and it felt amazing. Exciting. His hand slid from the back of her head down her back to settle in the small of her spine and the slow travel of his touch along her spine sent shivers of pleasure through every nerve in her body. He touched her the way a man should touch a woman. He held her with confidence, the pressure of his lips neither hard nor soft, but drawing from her a helpless, irresistible response. This, she thought dizzily, was the first real kiss of her life. A kiss that electrified, a kiss that could change one forever. He lifted his head and ran his thumb across her warm, flushed cheek. "See you tomorrow, cara." She tensed at the endearment. "So what are you going to do? Tail me?" He smiled faintly. "You do have a nice tail."
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"I still don't like you, Mr. Gabellini." "Good. I still don't want you to." Their eyes met and held and she saw a flicker in his eyes, a flicker of feeling that belied his words. And then he turned around and walked away. *** As Carlo headed back through the hotel lobby toward his waiting car, a voice hailed him from the bar. "Carlo! Join me." It was Remi, an old friend from his university days who'd become a casting agent and had a hugely successful office in Paris. "Wasn't that Estrella Galván?" Remi asked, signaling the bartender for two brandies. Carlo sat down on a bar stool in the darkened interior. "Yes," he answered, thinking that there was something about Estrella Galván that had gotten under his skin. He liked her. He shouldn't like her. But he did. "I thought you'd given up models," Remi said, taking a bar stool opposite. "I have." "So you're not together?" "No." Carlo was trying hard to forget the fire in Estrella's hazel eyes, the softness of her mouth, and the way she'd fit against him. "Why?" "Because I'd quite like to take that woman to bed." He felt his temper flare even as his stomach twisted in knots. Ridiculous. Who was to say strella would even be interested in Remi? Remi tapped out a cigarette and offered one to Carlo. "Whatever happened to Joy?" Carlo declined the cigarette. Remi had always been fascinated by Joy, an American model Carlo had dated years back, and a woman who'd used any- and everyone to get ahead. Including Carlo's younger sister, Gabi. When Joy dropped Carlo, Joy also dropped Gabi, and his sister was crushed. Gabi didn't understand what had happened to her "best" friend. "No idea." Remi flicked his lighter and lit his cigarette. "I heard Estrella was trying to get backing for a movie," he said, nodding toward the elevators. "Unfortunately, she doesn't know the first thing about getting an independent film distributed." "She's not actually the producer, is she?" "Well, it's not a big film. It's a documentary." Remi blew out a stream of smoke. "About India. And orphans. Originally she was only supposed to narrate but then the director ? a young Irish woman ? was killed just after filming ended so your model took over."
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Carlo's gut felt rock hard. He could see himself at the reception at the Majestic Hotel. He could hear his mocking words. "So there is a real film?" "Oui. One Heart." Remi blew another stream of smoke. "I'm surprised you didn't know. Everyone's been talking about the problems she's having getting support but no one's seen the damn thing and hell, let's face it. She's a model, not a brain surgeon. How intelligent can it be?" Carlo left the hotel without having touched his brandy. Was Estrella's film really legitimate? Was it a documentary about children, about orphans, and had he embarrassed her in front of the very people she needed most? If so, he was the biggest jerk around. *** After her hot shower, Estrella wrapped herself in a white hotel robe and opened the door of her room to her balcony. The rain had turned to a light misting and the night smelled cooler, sweeter, but it was hard for her to forget everything that had happened tonight. It'd been a very difficult night and Estrella was tempted to throw on some clothes, jump on an airplane, and head back to India where she was truly needed. She wasn't needed ? or even wanted ? here. Carlo Gabellini had brought that truth home quite clearly. In Cannes she was viewed as just another pretty, but useless, face. One of the reasons she'd left Buenos Aires six years ago was to get away from an indulgent, self-absorbed mother and her wealthy family's indulgent, self-absorbed lifestyle. Ever since she was little, Estrella had always wanted more. Not more things, but more emotion?more passion?more action. She'd thought modeling would be a ticket to living a more interesting life, but after six years of modeling she'd found herself even more limited. Men loved the idea that she was pretty. They just didn't want her to open her mouth. So she stopped talking. And before long she felt like a smiling Barbie doll even though on the inside she was cold and alone. Sighing a little, Estrella leaned against the door. She hadn't dated in nearly a year. Hadn't wanted to be with anyone after Andre, but Carlo's kiss tonight had stirred something inside her. Carlo was nearly as unkind as Andre, but his kiss had been amazing. There was something in the way he touched her?something in his kiss that made her feel warm from the inside out. How could a kiss be something that cleared one's head? Make one believe in possibilities and a life unseen? A kiss couldn't. It was just a trick of her mind, a play of the imagination. She was tired. She was overwhelmed. Time to go to bed. Tomorrow was the screening of One Heart and her most important day in Cannes yet. The screening was everything. The screening would convey the huge need, telling in color and pictures what words couldn't say. People would see the village orphanage, the dozens of small girls who'd been abandoned by their families, and the fate of older girls who were sold into prostitution. Estrella turned out the light knowing that in the morning, everything her friend Allie had worked for could finally come true.
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*** The ringing of the phone woke Estrella. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you better come downstairs." The husky male voice belonged to only one man. "I'm not interested," she answered, annoyed that she'd recognized Carlo Gabellini's voice in the first place. "You will be." Estrella sat up in bed. "I don't have time for this." "I think you do." His voice gentled. "Estrella, you better come down. It's important." Something in his tone sent shivers up and down her spine. He sounded worried. Very worried. But Carlo wasn't her friend and he wasn't on her side so why should he be worried for her? "You're scaring me." "I'm sorry." There was a moment's hesitation before he spoke again. "Your screening's been canceled." Chapter Four They'd canceled her screening? Estrella felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. The screening couldn't have been canceled. It was her best chance for interesting a major distributor. "It can't be. I've been placing ads. Handing out flyers." "Apparently there's been some kind of mix-up. It seems the theater ?" Carlo never had the chance to finish. She hung up on him and dove out of bed and into clothes. Estrella reached the lobby in less than three minutes. She was still roping her hair into a long dark ponytail when the elevator doors slid open. Carlo was in the lobby waiting. "What's going on?" she deman ded, tucking the hem of her green gauze blouse into her faded jeans. He handed her an espresso to go. "Come on. I've a car waiting. We'll head over to the festival office together." But in the back of his limousine Estrella could barely hold her cup of coffee, her hand shook so badly. "I don't understand." "I wanted more information." "Why?" "I was curious about your project." "Because you didn't think there really was a project, did you?" "You're a model, Estrella ?"
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"Go to hell!" She leaned forward to rap on the glass partition between the back seat and the driver. "Please pull over. I want to get out." Carlo put his hand on her forearm. "Don't be silly. We're almost there." She shook him off. "I don't care. I don't need you judging me. My life is hard enough without you making it tougher." The driver parked at the curb. Estrella quickly gathered her purse and binder filled with project information including script, bios, and film objective. Carlo swore beneath his breath. "I'm trying to help you, Estrella." "Help me?" she retorted, gripping the car door handle. "Just like you helped me last night at the Majestic?" He was incredible. He really was. "Well, stop helping me because your idea of help is killing my film." Estrella slid out of the back of Carlo's car and dashed to the Festival International du Film's office. But her breathless request for help was met with near indifference. "The theater is no longer available," the woman in the festival's front office replied as he rifled through a stack of forms. Estrella set her heavy binder down on the counter. "But how? Why?" "The screening room in the Riviera was double-booked. One film had to be bumped. Yours." "Yes, but we've been booked into that space for weeks." Estrella rummaged in her bag for her own paperwork. "I have a confirmation here ?" "It's just a piece of paper. Everybody has paper. Everybody has a film. This is Cannes." Estrella's fingers curled around her confirmation slip. She felt as if a shard of ice had lodged itself in her chest. "There must be something you can do." "It's out of my hands." Estrella didn't believe it. "When was the decision made to bump my documentary?" The woman muttered something in French and moved to her computer to open a file. "Late last night." She looked up at Estrella. "There was a meeting after the grand reception at the Majestic." The reception at the Majestic. That was the event she'd attended last night. Her movie had been bumped after the reception?her movie had been bumped after Carlo had discredited her in front of everyone. It was hopeless. And she was exhausted. Everything was so damn hard and she'd been fighting for this project so long. Wordlessly Estrella left the festival office, her shoulders slumped with fatigue. She stepped out into the sunshine, blinked against the brightness of the light, and saw Carlo Gabellini standing at the curb next to his car waiting for her. She snapped. Her control, her patience, her perspective ? all were long gone, and she marched on him wanting blood. "You did this," she cried. "This is your fault. The screening was canceled after you turned me into a stupid joke!"
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"Wait!" He held his hands up. "Slow down." "Slow down? Like hell! I came here to get a film distributed, and you've blown it to bits. You've blown my reputation, too. How do you live with yourself, Gabellini? How can you step on people this way?" "I haven't ?" "You have." Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. None of this would have happened if he'd just minded his own business. "You know every theater has been booked for months, some since the end of last year's festival. There's no way we're going to get another space at the last second." His brow creased. "I'm sorry." Tears burned her eyes and yet she'd rather burn in hell than let them fall. "No, you're not. You did exactly what you set out to do. You've totally discredited me as a legitimate filmmaker." She clenched her binder against her chest. "But you know, Carlo, you didn't hurt me. You hurt dozens of little girls." She flipped open the binder and pointed to a page of black-and-white photographs. "These babies were all supposed to be put to death at birth. Why? They're girls. In some villages in Tamil Nadu they still kill female children at birth. It's believed that the birth of a female child is a curse to the family." She lifted her head and looked at him, pain and outrage shimmering in her eyes. "One Heart is the story of an orphanage in Tamil Nadu trying to save these unwanted babies. One Heart is about poor people in southern India trying to make a difference despite their poverty." She ripped the page of photographs from the binder and thrust it at him. "It's a film that should have been seen, and it would have been, if it weren't for you." Carlo gazed down at the page of photographs. There were a half-dozen photos and all the girls were very young, mostly toddlers between one and three. They had beautiful brown eyes and somber expressions. "I didn't cancel your screening," he said quietly. "I wouldn't do that to you." "But you did embarrass me." He couldn't remember when he last felt so small, mean, and petty. She was right. He had embarrassed her. He'd thought she was using people, thought she was playing them ? working a new angle just like Joy had worked him. And just like Andre had said Estrella had worked him. But Andre lied. Estrella wasn't like Joy. Estrella had never been callous and self-absorbed. "Why?" Estrella demanded huskily. He swallowed hard, weighed down by guilt. "I thought I was protecting the others." God, the words sounded thin, the excuse flimsy. "You were with Andre when he had money, but then after his accident and after he lost everything you disappeared on him." Estrella shook her head, her lips quivering with hurt and disgust. "Not that you're interested in facts, but I didn't use Andre. He used me. He emptied my checking account. He slept with other women behind my back. And when he had that stroke, he wasn't alone. He was in bed, naked, snorting a funny white powder with one of my best friends." Carlo felt as if she'd hit him with a hammer. "I don't know what to say." "Of course not. It's easier to be cruel, isn't it?"
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Chapter Five Estrella told Carlo to stay away from her, and he had. Then she allowed herself a couple hours to feel sorry for herself before she gave herself a major attitude adjustment. She was not going to let this film go unnoticed. If she couldn't get a screening, then she'd interest distributors another way. She'd paper Cannes with a synopsis of One Heart. She'd run a thousand copies and leave them everywhere. It sounded like a good plan until she actually had to distribute a thousand flyers. Late the next morning Estrella stood at the edge of the Croisette, the street lined with huge tents with names like the American Pavilion and the British Pavilion, each tent packed with people drinking, schmoozing, and making deals, and tried to forget that her feet ached and her arms were sore. Aches and pains didn't matter. The girls mattered. Allie's dream mattered. Important stuff mattered. Not blistered heels and tender arms. Remembering the girls motivated Estrella. She was passing the Italian Pavilion when a voice hailed her from inside. "How is it going?" She tensed. Not him again. There were thousands of people in Cannes and she had to run into Carlo Gabellini every five minutes. Estrella clutched the thick stack of flyers and studied him as he wandered to the edge of the Italian Pavilion. He looked extraordinary this afternoon. White shirt casually unbuttoned at the throat. Light gray trousers in a fine Italian fabric. Beautiful leather belt and shoes. And of course, that amazing face of his. "It's going fine," she answered, knowing she was on the brink of collapse but unwilling to tell him that. "Why don't you come in, rest a bit, have a cold drink?" "I can't. I've still a couple hundred flyers to handout." "Can I have one?" Wordlessly she handed him one and he studied the paper. "It's a project overview," she said. "Good job," he said, skimming the information. "You've got it all here. Outline of the project, bios, script synopsis, contact information. Well done." He looked up at her, nodding with approval. "I haven't seen such a polished, comprehensive project overview here." She didn't know if it was the expression in his eyes or his words of approval, but she flushed with pleasure. It was so nice to hear something positive, but the moment she realized how much his compliment mattered to her, she blasted herself for being a fool. Carlo Gabellini's opinion wasn't important. He was the bad guy. He'd made her trip to Cannes an absolute nightmare. "Here, give me half the stack," he added. "I'll help you pass them out. That way you won't be on your feet all day." Was this his way of saying sorry? She wasn't sure if she should even accept his apology, if he made one.
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"I'm good at this sort of thing," he added seriously. "I used to work in a stock exchange. I ran paper all over the building. I was very fast. Very reliable." Estrella's lips twitched. Even if she wanted to refuse his offer, she couldn't. She needed his help too badly. The children needed his help too badly. "I've already covered the area from the Carlton to the Grand Hotel. I've the rest of the Croisette to go." "Fine." His silver gaze met hers and held for a moment, and then another moment longer. Estrella felt a cool shiver of sensation race through her. "I'll take the right side of the promenade. You take the left. We'll meet at the end." It was nearly two hours before she finished working her side of the Croisette. Fans had begun to recognize her and she'd spent almost as much time signing autographs and posing for pictures as she did handing out flyers. "How about that cold drink now?" Carlo said, stepping through the crowd and rescuing Estrella from yet another photo session. She nodded gratefully. She felt parched and her head throbbed from the bright light and noise of the crowd. "Please." His brow furrowed and he lightly pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "Are you all right, cara?" His hand felt wonderful, cool and firm, and she managed a small smile. "Just thirsty." He nodded but his expression remained watchful. "Let's get you in the shade," he said, placing a protective hand in the middle of her back, steering her away from the packed promenade toward the steps of the distinguished Martinez Hotel. She suppressed a shiver as his fingers pressed against her back. She loved the way he touched her, loved his confidence and his ease in crowds. He moved them through the hotel lobby to the terrace restaurant, where they were seated at a window table, with the tall windows wide-open to capture the afternoon breeze. Carlo ordered the afternoon tea for them and as they sat at the small table with the crisp white linen cloth Estrella began to relax. The sun was glorious. From their table they could see the crowded beach with neat rows of striped umbrellas and a sea of bronzed bodies. "I didn't know Andre had a drug problem." Carlo's voice broke the quiet. "It was a big problem," she answered quietly. "But he worked hard to hide it from you." "Is that where all the money went?" Her shoulders shifted. She didn't like talking about Andre. Didn't like thinking about him. Andre had been an extremely hurtful person. Dating him had been one of the lowest points in her life. "That and gambling. He got in deep with some of the wrong people, but I don't know the details. He didn't discuss things like that with me." Carlo sighed and ran a hand through his dark crisp hair, ruffling it thoroughly. "Wow. I read it all wrong. I put two and two together and got seven. I'm sorry." She looked up at him and her heart did a little jump. It was so silly. There was no way she could allow herself to get involved with Carlo, and yet there was something about him that she responded to. "You weren't the only one that trusted Andre," she said after a moment, trying to ignore the lurch inside of her, that little part of her that hoped. Maybe one day she would be taken seriously. Maybe one day she'd find
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the right man, and real love. "Lots of people did. He could be charming when he wanted. He knew how to play it." She took a deep breath. "He certainly played me." "I'm sorry he hurt you." She shrugged. "If he hadn't, I wouldn't have wanted to escape Europe for a while, and I wouldn't have agreed to narrate the film. I guess you can say that Andre's betrayal led me to finding my mission." Carlo's intense gaze met hers. "Fate." "No ?" "Fate," he repeated. And the silence stretched between them, a long taut silence that somehow wrapped them together. Fate. Estrella drew a shallow breath, her pulse quickened, and she suddenly wondered if perhaps he was right. Perhaps fate had also brought her and Carlo together. Perhaps there was something greater ahead for both of them?a destiny together ? No. Absolutely not. Estrella lifted a hand as if to break the spell. It was the heat. The lingering effects of the sun. It was her fatigue. It wasn't Carlo and it wasn't fate and she couldn't let herself enjoy his company this much. He was impossible. He'd made her life utterly miserable and there was no way she'd let him connect with her head, or her heart, or any other part of her body. Estrella pushed back from the table and stood. "I should go. It's late. I've still so much to do." He rose, too. "What else can I do? I know there must be more." He probably could do more. He could probably buy her a screening. He could buy her an audience, too. But she couldn't ask him. It was dangerous. Wrong. "If you want to help, support Relief Now. It's the nonprofit group Allie worked with and I'm sure they'd welcome a donation." Carlo walked her outside and put her into the back of a cab, but he didn't let the driver leave. Leaning into the car, Carlo's silver gaze held hers. "I had a younger sister with special needs. She died a couple years ago but she would have liked you, Estrella. She would have liked what you're doing." His hesitated a moment. "I like what you're doing." She shook her head. She didn't know what to say. He was stirring up all her emotions again, making her feel so many contradictory things. "Gabi was adopted," he added quietly. "From Romania. My mother always wanted a little girl. Gabi was her girl." As Carlo looked down into Estrella's face, he realized he'd fallen for her. And fallen hard. He reached out and touched her cheek. "If you ever need someone in your corner, Estrella, you've got me." Her eyes filmed with tears. "I do need ? I still want a screening for One Heart. If you can possibly make a few calls?pull some strings?"
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He straightened. "I'll see what I can do." Chapter Six The screening room was dark. There was utter silence as the film ended. Estrella balled her hands against the chair's arms and tried to stifle the stab of disappointment. The audience didn't like it. They didn't feel the emotion. They didn't see the children as she did. The lights came up and the red auditorium remained silent and then suddenly someone was clapping. Many people were clapping. Estrella felt goose bumps prickle her skin. The clapping grew louder, faster, and it was like a dull roar in her head and she didn't know what to think, or feel. They liked it? A hand touched her elbow. "Stand up," someone said in her ear. "They want to see you. They want to acknowledge you." She slowly rose to her feet and the lights lifted brighter. She felt as if she were standing in a spotlight even though there was none. The applause still rang in Estrella's ears as the theater emptied. She only had two wishes tonight. That Carlo would have joined her for the screening ? she'd called and left him a message at his hotel but she never heard back ? and that Allie would ave been here tonight to see this. Allie would have loved this. Allie deserved this. "You've done an excellent job." Estrella spun to find Carlo standing in the row of seats behind her. He was in black tie and he was alone. She felt a bubble of surprise and pleasure and she drew her red silk wrap closer to her bare shoulders. "You came." "Had to see it." Again that spike of pleasure, her chest feeling tight and the emotion was so bittersweet. Carlo Gabellini was supposed to be the enemy but he didn't feel like the enemy at all anymore. "I called your hotel but when you didn't phone back?" her voice drifted off and she blushed. She sounded like a schoolgirl. "I had some business in Milan. Flew home for the day and only just returned this evening." "But you saw the film?" "I saw it all." "And what do you really think?" "It's a very powerful, very honest film." She knew she was beaming. She couldn't help it. She'd waited so long for this night. "It's all Allie. She had the vision. She did the hard part. I just wanted to make sure it got seen, and it did. Thank you."
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He glanced around at the rapidly emptying theater. "I wish the space had been bigger. More people should have seen it." "Maybe someday." His eyes searched her face. "You really do care for the children, don't you?" "How can I not? They're such beautiful children and they'll have no future if they remain there. These girls deserve better. They deserve homes and education, good nutrition, and most of all ? love." "What about adoption?" "That's part of the goal, but it's not easy adopting children from India. There's lots of red tape, and even if one can wade through that, not all children will be adopted. So that's the second half of the equation ? finding funds to help the children that can't be adopted. Trying to bring a teacher to the orphanage. Trying to get books and supplies. Trying to get medicine, food, and clothes. There's so much to be done." Carlo's expression gentled. "And you want to do it." "Yes." He reached out and smoothed a dark tendril back from her face. "You can't save the world." She liked the feel of his hand against her face and yet his words made her heart ache. "Why not?" Thank God he didn't laugh. He simply shook his head once, a slow compassionate shake. "Don't make me answer that. You've had a long day. Let me take you to dinner." She opened her mouth to refuse and then couldn't. She liked his company. She loved having him here tonight. Somehow his support mattered far more than it should and there was no way she was ready to say goodbye to him. Lifting her head she looked into his face. He looked so handsome, and yet so self-contained, that her heart did a strange little lurch. She'd needed someone on her side, someone to open doors, someone to make things happen and he'd done it all. He'd been there for her. He'd been magnificent. For the first time she wasn't afraid of him. For the first time she wanted to just relax and be herself with him. No more worrying. No more doubting. No more struggling. Maybe dinner was just what she needed. "Yes. Sounds great. Thank you." They ate at a quiet restaurant hidden behind the big hotels a couple blocks from the crowd-jammed Croisette. After dinner they managed to avoid most of the crowds by walking back to the Carlton along the beach. The moon shone on the water and the waves crashed foamy and white against the darker sand. Following Carlo's lead, Estrella stripped off her strappy red heels to walk barefoot next to him in the cool sand. They walked in silence for nearly a quarter mile and Estrella realized she loved being with Carlo. Loved the way he made her feel tonight ? not just about life, but about herself. He seemed so strong, so grounded, so?real. Lifting her red dress higher she felt the water circle her feet. The water was cool and her skin felt tingly. The sky here looked so big. Endless. Turning she glanced at the glittery scene of downtown Cannes with the sea of white pavilions.
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"This could be a movie," she said, gesturing to the wide empty beach with the backdrop of the city. "You could show a movie here on the beach, followed by a big gala. No theater can rival this for beauty." She laughed a little and looked at Carlo. "Sorry. I'm talking too much." "Don't apologize. I like it. I like your ideas, your thoughts. I want to know everything about you." "But I might say too much. Or say the wrong things." He came to a stop next to her. "What good is a mind if you can't have an opinion? What good is an opinion if you can't speak it?" She smiled faintly, emotion bottled inside her. "Be careful. I have lots of opinions." "Good." He walked higher up the beach and sat down. "Join me. And tell me about Argentina. I've never been." She dropped down next to him and he peeled off his coat, settled it around her bare shoulders. She snuggled into the warm silk-lined fabric. "This reminds me of Mar y Sierras, which translates roughly to 'hills roll down to the sea.'" "Sounds romantic." "It can be. It's where Argentines like to play. Like here on the French Riviera, Mar y Sierras has beautiful beaches and resorts, great nightlife, casinos. Same kind of wealthy, fashionable crowd ?" He leaned forward, cupped the back of her head and cut off her words by covering her mouth with his. She drank in a breath at the shimmer of heat as his lips brushed hers, his skin warm and fragrant, his body hard, and she knew instinctively that this was exactly what she needed. Her hands slid up to hold his face and she savored the feel of him and the crisp texture of his hair. His lips parted hers and her tummy tightened at the flick of his tongue and the pressure of his mouth against hers. The magic of the kiss wasn't technique as much as energy. The energy between them was tangible. Carlo stretched her back against the sand and she sank into the soft grains as Carlo's black coat protected her. His head lifted and he gazed down at her, his expression intense. "You don't know how much I've been wanting to do that." "Then maybe you should do that again," she whispered. Chapter Seven The emotion of the moment almost overwhelmed Estrella. "I feel like I've been waiting forever for you," she confessed. Carlo settled over her, his weight balanced on his elbows, his chest just grazing hers. "I know I have," he answered, kissing her exposed collarbone and then the side of her neck. She shivered at the light kiss on her neck. His lips felt so lovely against her skin. When his mouth trailed across hers, she sighed and reached up to clasp the back of his head, her fingers sinking into his crisp black hair. "You better not start something you can't finish," she whispered against his mouth.
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"Perhaps we should head back?" "To my hotel, yes." But en route to the Carlton they passed the Palais with its red carpet and twenty-two stairs. All the big name directors and actors climbed those stairs. All photographers focused their lenses on the stairs. "There they are," Carlo said, slowing a little, his arm circling Estrella's waist. He couldn't remember when he'd last enjoyed an evening so much. He felt good when he was with her. He felt more focused and relaxed. "The most famous steps in Cannes." Estrella's high heels hung from two fingers. "It looks different without the crowds." "Makes you want to be part of it." Estrella shook her head. "I really don't care for the celebrity part. In fact, I'm ready to move on, ready to do something for others." She'd surprised him. "You'd give up modeling?" "I've been offered a position with Relief Now." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been thinking of taking it." He watched her hand rake her hair back, watched the way the moonlight reflected her eyes. He'd never get tired of looking at her. "It's a salary position?" "No. But I've a little savings left and I can live off that for a year or two." "No more bright lights?" he asked, picturing them living quietly in his big house in Milan with weekends spent at the villa on Lake Como. "At least, not on me." They reached the Carlton and climbed the front steps. Carlo walked her to the elevator and she pulled him inside. "Is there anywhere you have to be?" she asked, as the elevator doors closed. His eyes locked with hers. "Not tonight." She could get lost in his eyes, lost in him. "Then stay." He did. It'd been months and months since she'd been with anyone and Estrella held her breath as Carlo slowly undressed her, unfastening the small hooks in the boned bodice of her red silk gown and pushing the full crimson fabric down over her black lace bra, down over her hips to let it pool at her feet. His mouth followed his hands, his lips caressing her smooth shoulder, the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip. She felt so much ? wanted so much ? and it was thrilling to give herself over to him, to give up control and just enjoy the moment. He knew how to make the most of the moment, too. He kissed her beneath her earlobe, and then worked his way to her breast, his tongue drawing small circles of fire over her skin. She smothered a gasp as he caught the peaked nipple between his lips, the pressure and heat of his mouth both a torture and a delight.
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Being with him was erotic. Exciting. It was everything she wanted. Her body was growing hot. Her imagination was inflamed. She wanted more. Carlo lifted his head and his light gaze met hers in the dark. He was breathing hard and his silver gaze was nearly pewter. He wanted her. He wanted everything she did. Estrella leaned closer, brushed her breasts across his chest, and then unfastened his shirt one slow button at a time. was watching her and felt his keen interest as she slid the shirt from his shoulders, revealing a toned chest and a flat muscular belly. She placed her hands on his hard stomach, then delicately traced the muscles with her tongue. He was so warm and his skin smelled fragrant and he felt like satin. He was so incredibly sexy and tonight he was all hers. She looked up at him and with his gaze holding hers, she stripped his belt from his slacks and then unzipped his black pants without saying a word. There was no talking at all. It was as if they'd used all their words earlier and the silence heightened the tension, as well as the passion. She was so aware of him she felt as if she could hear his heart beat, and feel him breathe. With his gaze still locked with hers, she gently cupped him through his briefs. He was already hard and straining and she slipped her hand beneath the white fabric to stroke him fully. Carlo groaned deep in his throat and she stroked him again. This time she felt his taut belly contract, his lean hips rock, and for the first time in her life Estrella wanted to love a man with her hands and her mouth, she wanted to feel him and taste him. She wanted to make him hers completely. But he wouldn't let her kneel before him. His hands lifted her to her feet and he carried her to the bed. There was something intensely alive between them, something that couldn't be defined by the mind or with words. And when Carlo lowered his head to kiss her ? really kiss her with his lips and his tongue ? she knew she'd never really made love before. She'd had sex and she'd felt pleasure but it'd never been love, never been close to the joy of this. And it was joy to be close to someone and to feel so good. It was wonderful to feel as if something mattered and life made sense. To feel empowered by love? Carlo shifted his weight, moving between her thighs and with a smooth thrust he entered her body and helplessly she tightened around him, her breath catching in her throat, her skin feverishly hot, sensitive to the slightest nuance. Their lovemaking was slow and intense. There was no pressure, no race, nothing to be won or gained. It was just touch, it was just sensation, it was just the two of them together, alone. When Estrella felt the pleasure building and the tension return, sensation turning sharp and strong, she curled her arms around Carlo's shoulders and buried her face against his warm damp skin and gave herself totally to him, not just her body, but her heart. She'd never thought she'd feel this way about anyone, and yet this was love, she was certain of it. After a lifetime of fragments and broken pieces, Carlo made her feel complete. *** Estrella woke early in the morning to Carlo's caress and they made love again, and later when they were both spent, Estrella propped her chin on her hand and looked down at him.
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"You never talk about your life," she said, suddenly feeling very serious. "You never talk about your family, or your past loves." "My family's huge. I have three brothers ? all working in Italy ? dozens of cousins." He shrugged. "And until you, there hasn't ever been a love. There have been women. And lovers. But never a love." Her heart did a funny double beat. "I feel the same way about you." Carlo reached out to cup her cheek, loving the shape of her face, the intelligence in her hazel-green eyes. She was everything he ever wanted in a woman ? and more. "What do you want more than anything right now?" "Save all the beautiful babies I can in Tamil Nadu." She was going to break his heart, he thought, leaning forward to kiss her lips. "After that?" he murmured. "Get One Heart distributed around the world. I want everyone to know about the orphanage." He kissed her again. "And so it shall be done." Later that morning they went for a drive, leaving noisy crowded Cannes behind and taking a road high into the mountains giving them a spectacular view of the Riviera. Carlo stopped in Mougins, an old hilltop town with ramparts dating from the fifteenth century. Once parked, they left the car and walked across a meadow filled with wildflowers to a crumbling stone wall. They sat down on the wall and Estrella leaned against Carlo. "This is lovely. It's so peaceful here." Carlo gazed down at Estrella, her long dark hair draped across one shoulder, and his chest felt hot and tight. He'd never felt this way before. He knew he'd never feel this way about anyone again. He turned her around so she faced him. His eyes searched hers. God, he loved her. He couldn't imagine life without her. Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. "Marry me." Chapter Eight "Marry me," Carlo repeated urgently. They were, Estrella thought, the sweetest words she'd ever heard. For him to know her goals, her dream, her passion and still want her ? it was remarkable. Her eyes burned and a massive lump filled her throat. "I can't." He held her before him, his hands on her upper arms. "Why not?" "I'd be a terrible wife ?" "No!" She stood up on tiptoe and gently kissed him, her lips brushing his. "Yes. Especially to a Gabellini. Gabellinis are wealthy and powerful and extremely prominent ? you're like the Galváns in Argentina ? but it's everything I don't want. Everything I can't be anymore." "Cara, darling ?" "No." Her eyes burned like fire and it was all she could do to hold the tears in check. "Please don't argue. It'll only make it worse. We have different goals, Carlo. We're heading in different directions."
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*** Carlo drove them back to Cannes and the tension during the return drive was unbearable. Pulling up at the Carlton, Carlo parked and turned to her, his features grim. "I don't understand why you don't think we'll work." "What we have won't last. It can't." Her eyes felt gritty as sand. "In less than a week Cannes will be transformed again. The posters will come down, the red carpet rolled up, the crowds dispersed. We're the same. We're part of the magic here, but this isn't the real world. At least, it's not my real world. My world is in Tamil Nadu." She saw him blanch, saw the fear in his eyes. "You don't have to go to India to help the children," he said tersely. "You can raise funds here. You can increase public awareness without putting yourself in the line of fire." She knew he was referring to Allie. "If I don't go I won't know the money is reaching the children. I have to be certain the girls are getting proper care. I can't just hope everything will turn out right. I must make sure it does." His jaw hardened. His silver gaze grew flinty. "You won't even give us a chance." The first tear fell and Estrella dashed it away. "I can't, Carlo, but I do love you. I'll always love you." "You're saying goodbye then?" Oh, she hated those words and she hated it said like that. He made it sound as if this was easy. It wasn't easy. It felt like hell but she couldn't give up on the girls. She'd made a promise. "Not goodbye." Her voice cracking with emotion. "What about au revoir? Until the next time?" "No. I hate it. I won't say it." "Then don't." She pressed her mouth to his, closed her eyes, and told herself to remember what it felt like being loved like this. She told herself to remember his strength, his warmth, and his tremendous generosity. Fighting tears, she turned her head and whispered in his ear. "I will never forget you. I will never forget what you've done for me and the children of Tamil Nadu." Before he could answer she slipped from the car and disappeared into her hotel, blinking back tears as she ran. *** Late that night two envelopes appeared beneath Estrella's door. She carried the envelopes to her bed. The first envelope was of a heavy cream paper and she drew out a stiff cream invitation. You are cordially invited to join Integro Investment Bank for the Premiere of One Heart, 7 o'clock, The Riviera. The gala event Carlo had promised. Hands shaking, she opened the second envelope and discovered a first-class ticket to New Delhi. It was, she noted with fresh tears welling in her eyes, just one way. The next evening Estrella dressed for the screening with infinite care, doing her hair and applying her makeup as if she were girding for battle. And in a way, she was. She was preparing to face Carlo one last time before leaving him later tonight.
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Looking at her pale reflection in the bathroom she knew it would be hell tonight. Being with him and yet not being with him was as cruel a punishment as she could imagine. She reached up and adjusted the strap of her gown. The fabric was a nude satin with an overlay of small violet flowers, the violet flowers speckled with clear sequins. It was an extravagant gown, a high-voltage Hollywood type of gown but tonight Estrella had to play the part of the glamorous model one last time. Tonight she had to shine for the photographers and the press and make sure One Heart got all the attention it possibly could. Carlo had sent his limousine for her and en route to the Riviera she saw bright white spotlights streak the sky. It wasn't until the limousine stopped at the beach that she discovered the spotlights were for the premiere and they were drawing a crowd. She was awed. Carlo had thought of everything. A dozen flashbulbs popped in her eyes as she stepped onto the red carpet, the press converging just as they did for the big studio premieres. How had he organized all this in three days? He'd put together the screening, the party, the press, even the red carpet ? for her. She nearly lost her composure then. She was so grateful for all that he'd done, and so overwhelmed by his support. She'd never met a man like Carlo before and doubted she ever would again. Carlo met her inside the white pavilion tent on the sand. The screening was black-tie and again he wore his tuxedo. Estrella felt her heart turn over as she looked at him. He was so big, so imposing, so fiercely protective of her dream. "You look gorgeous," she said, resting her hand on his sleeve and rising to kiss his cheek. He turned his head and caught the kiss on his mouth. "I love you." Her eyes burned and she felt the ache in her chest like the tide of the sea. It was pulling on her, sucking her in, and yet she couldn't give in. As soon as she thought of the girls, she knew she had to go, knew she had a job to do. "I love you, too," she whispered before being surrounded by a circle of international buyers and pulled in an opposite direction from Carlo. *** Later, the big white tent became a massive movie screen and the guests in glittering evening dress sat down in chairs and on blankets spread across the sand. Then the lights strung across the inside of the tent dimmed and a projector turned on, showing the first of two reels of film. By the time the screening ended, the documentary had been picked up by a legion of networks, independent distributors, and of the largest cable companies in the United States. Everyone who was anyone had attended the premiere and there was talk of the film being nominated for an Oscar and possibly shown at next year's Sundance Film Festival. The evening had been a huge success, but like everything, the party eventually ended. The guests departed. The tent came down and Estrella returned to her hotel where she changed into traveling clothes, packed her bags and paid her bill at the hotel. At the Nice airport, Estrella checked in and cleared security. It was while waiting at the gate that she spotted a familiar dark head bent over a newspaper.
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Estrella's jaw dropped. Carlo? At the airport? "What are you doing here?" she demanded, confronting him just as the announcement was made that the airline would begin preboarding in just a moment. He looked up from the paper, feigning shock. "My God, Estrella, what are you doing here?" "Don't even start with me. What are you doing here, and where are you going?" He rose. "Well, I'm getting on a plane, and I'm going to India." "You can't! That's where I'm going." He whistled. "Fate." "No, it's not fate. It's wrong." "It's not wrong." Carlo held out his airline ticket. He had a seat assignment. It was the seat next to hers. "I have a ticket, I have a seat, and I'm going." "But?why?" "Because you're going. And I want to be there. Someone's got to keep an eye on you." It wasn't because he didn't trust her. It was because he cared. He loved her. Even though he'd said the words before, she felt it for the first time, felt it in her middle, in her bones, in her heart. He'd be with her, stand by her, and after a lifetime of standing alone it was heaven. Yet still, the knowledge bowled her over. She knew what he was giving up. Knew the sacrifices he'd make. "But your company. And your family ?" "Doesn't matter. I'm doing this for you, Estrella, but I'm also doing it for myself. If I can help the children, I want to." Estrella's eyes filled with tears. "Where we're going there are no luxury hotels." He reached out and drew her into his arms, his hands curving in the small of her back. "I understand, cara. I can handle a sleeping bag, a mosquito net, and bottled water." "So you know there'll be bugs." "Yes. There'll be lots of bugs." Then he smiled a small crooked smile. "But I think I could handle a swarm of locusts if it means I get to spend the next year of my life with you." Her smile faltered. "Just a year?" "That depends on whether or not you'll marry me ?" "Yes!" She slid her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth to his. "Carlo Gabellini, I want to arry you. I want to love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you." He smiled before brushing his lips across hers. "Can I get that in writing?"
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Estrella laughed, her heart lighter than it had been in years. "It's not necessary. We don't stand a chance. We're meant to be together. It's fate."
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Miss Ex-Girlfriend Pageant by Melissa Senate Me, of the medium looks and amazing talent for being a corporate drone, entering the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies? Maddie thought. Maddie used to have the perfect boyfriend: Nick Jones. But then he dumped her for a Cameron Diaz lookalike, who then dumped him for mysterious reasons. Now Nick wants Maddie to befriend Tamara at the pageant we're both entering so that she can win Tamara back for him. To make matters worse, Maddie's boss wants Tamara for the company's modeling campaign, and her parents want Nick at the big family dinner next weekend, and suddenly, what Maddie wants is getting really complicated....
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One Tuesday The Atlantic Grill, a restaurant on Manhattan's Upper East Side The problem with the first date you went on after getting your heart broken into 500 pieces was that you couldn't help comparing Date Guy to the Guy Who Dumped You. Example (out of a perfect 10): Rob Carvel: 2 1/2. Nick Jones: 11. If you haven't guessed, Rob Carvel was the guy currently sitting across from me in the Atlantic Grill. Thirtythree years old. Senior number-cruncher. A Gemini with something ? I forgot what ? rising, according to our awkward convo during the shrimp cocktails. Was Rob Carvel your typical nightmare of a blind date set up by my well-meaning but "I'm so sick of listening to you whine about Nick" roommate, Heidi? No. After all, Heidi was my best friend and wouldn't stick me with total schlub. No, no, Rob was perfectly nice-looking, perfectly nice. Perfectly?not Nick Jones. Deep sigh. Was that how Nick had felt about me? That I was perfectly this and that, but not perfectly perfect for him? Just not the one? Why did it take me all of four minutes to realize when someone had It potential or not when it took guys just a little over six weeks? Oh, wait a minute. I just remembered that it hadn't been a matter of time for Nick. It had been a matter of a wanna-be supermodel named Tamara. What did Tamara have that I didn't? A detailed list: Numbers 1 through 1,000,000: She looked exactly like Cameron Diaz. "So, Maddie," Rob Carvel said out of his slightly too small mouth, a fleck of grilled zucchini between his two front teeth. He took a sip of his merlot, pinkie raised in the air. "Everyone asks me if I'm related to the Carvel ice cream dynasty, but I'm not. Don't I wish, though! So what's your favorite flavor, Maddie? Vanilla, chocolate, or the twist? I'm partial to the twist with multicolored sprinkles." Oh, God. Was this first date conversation these days? Was this what men and women who were potentially two more dates away from seeing each other naked talked about?
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Don't be so cranky! I mentally yelled at myself. Just you remember the alternative to this perfectly nice guy: pity from "the Coast." My shoulders slumped and I suddenly couldn't bear another bite of my herb-encrusted salmon. I'd better explain. My father (a Hollywood producer), his wife (my step-monster, Ivy), and their 21-year-old daughter (my half sister, Ariel, a backup singer for a teen superstar) were coming to New York City next weekend to (and I quote) "shop for the fall season." They were going to stay at the ultratrendy "W" hotel in Union Square. The step-monster had called to pen me and "that darling boyfriend of yours" in for a dinner during their visit, then had gone on to her usual ego-stomping conversation: "You're not still living in that charming ?" (translation: wretched) " ?little apartment, are you, Madeline? I mean, it's hardly big enough for half a person, let alone two young women! Well, if you play your cards right, maybe you'll be picking out a nice diamond at Tiffany's and living with Nick in a luxury doorman building!" I was actually quite proud of the tiny two-bedroom, sixth-floor walk-up apartment that Heidi and I had been lucky to find on Manhattan's Upper East Side at a supercheap, rent-controlled $1,650 a month, which was hardly affordable on our pathetic $27,500 a year salaries. We ate a lot of rice and beans and never took taxis. Or went shopping. We couldn't even afford movies, which at $10.00 had eclipsed the suggested donation for entry to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Have you been promoted yet?" the step-monster had inquired, as though my job as a junior copywriter at Cashmere Cosmetics was a family embarrassment. It was always Ivy who called every few weeks to say hi and keep in touch, never my dad, except on my birthday. Harry Simon had divorced my mother for Ivy when I was five, and the new family had taken off for L.A., rarely seen since. If my father had business in New York, I saw him. If Ivy wanted to shop for the upcoming season, I saw him. The Simons' last visit (Ivy simply had to see some Broadway show that was closing) had coincided with my brief romance. And, Nick, Mr. Busy, had actually agreed to dinner with the folks, mostly because my father was a producer and sounded important. The Simons had paid attention to me for the first time in years because Nick, in his black shirt, black tie, black pants, and Prada shoes, was sitting next to me, ordering the right wine, talking the right talk, telling insider stories about his plastic-surgeon-to-the-celebrities doctor uncle in the Hamptons. My father had been impressed by Nick, and Harry Simon had looked at me differently, spoken to me differently. Like I was someone instead of his plain-Jane, curly-haired kid back east who lived in a rattrap, couldn't sing, dance, act, or draw, and still had the word junior in her title at age 29. Anyway, was it any big surprise that I neglected to mention to the Simons that Nick, my one and only accomplishment in their eyes, had dumped me on my head? Maybe I should also mention that my last boyfriend ? a guy so shy he broke into hives when Ivy asked him what his father did for a living ? so offended the Simons with his lack of presence that they sent me brochures for speed-dating events on the Upper West Side, where they wished I'd move. I felt someone's eyes on me. Oh, that's right. I was on a date. And what a bad idea that had been. I'd thought I could get over Nick by meeting someone new. I'd thought I could find someone else to make me appear normal in the judging eyes of my family at one three-hour dinner. But I'd thought wrong. I wanted Nick next to me. And so did the Simons. Rob finished the last of his tuna steak, stared at me pointedly and furrowed his light brown eyebrows. He leaned to the right, eyed me, then leaned to the left and eyed me again. The brows furrowed once more. He pursed his lips as though he was trying to figure out a logarithm. "So, um, Heidi mentioned that you're entering the Miss New York pageant," Rob said, looking me up and down, taking in my long brown corkscrew curls that refused all attempts to be straightened, my muddy-lake colored eyes, my lack of cheekbones, my non-silicone-enhanced lips, my medium height, medium chest, medium body, and medium looks. "I have to admit, when Heidi told me she was fixing me up with a Miss New York contestant, I was, like, whoa, dude, this chick's going to be a total babe. I was really intimidated. But, you're ? I mean, uh, I thought you had to look like a model to be Miss New York." Asshole.
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"Miss Yorkville," I corrected, tempted to scoop up my rice pilaf and fling it at him. "Yorkville is what my neighborhood is called, you know, east of Second Avenue in the 80s and 90s. It's just a local pageant, and anyway, I'm just entering. I'm not expecting to even make the first cut." That was true. I wasn't entering the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies to win. I was doing it in memory and honor of my mother, who'd been Miss Yorkville 1972 (and who, by the way, had looked like a model). My mom died when I was 21, two days after I'd graduated from New York University, as though she'd held on until that tassel-switching moment that gave her comfort in leaving me. Wouldn't it be something if you were crowned Miss Yorkville, too? she'd often mused. Oh, how happy it would make me just to have you enter the pageant! My heart squeezed at the thought of my mom, her warm blue eyes dreamy at the thought of her only child following in her footsteps. But unless I entered the pageant this year, I'd lose the opportunity. Miss Yorkville had to be under 30 years old. And I was 29. "Wow, Maddie, you've got guts," Rob said, flipping open the leather billfold that contained the check. "I mean, take that chick over there ?" He gestured to the table behind ours. "I'll bet you'll be facing a lot of babes like her in the pageant." Where had Heidi found this jerk? I turned around to check out my competition and almost spit out my mouthful of merlot. The Cameron Diaz lookalike who just so happened to be the supermodel wanna-be Nick had dumped me for was perusing a menu and flashing her superwhite teeth at her good-looking date, who was not Nick Jones. A month ago, Tamara Arm had turned up in the reception area of small Cashmere Cosmetics for a model "go-see," and I had gone from Nick's six-week-old girlfriend to history. I watched the Wanna-Be bat her baby-blues and scootch closer to her dinner companion. Interesting. This must mean that Nick and Tamara had broken up! Maybe I had another chance with him! Maybe he'd attend the Simon family dinner with me! Maybe ? Maybe Nick was suddenly standing outside the Atlantic Grill, staring through the window at Tamara, rain pouring on his head, a forlorn expression on his gorgeous face. He was clutching a cell phone. He punched in some numbers, then held the phone to his ear, his tortured eyes on Tamara. The wanna-be's cell phone rang. I heard her say hello, smack her lips, tell her date (who, mind you, was wearing sunglasses) that she was sorry, she'd only be a minute, and then hiss-whisper, "Nick, I told you. It's over!" Silence. "You're not hearing me!" Silence. "Well I don't love you, Nick! What?" she practically shrieked as she craned her neck to peer past Sunglasses out the window. "I can't believe you're stalking me! It's over. Deal with it!" Click. And that was when Nick's beseeching yet still beautiful eyes found mine. They widened. He punched numbers into the cell phone again. My little date purse started ringing. Why did I get the feeling he wasn't calling to tell me he wanted me back? What did he want? Chapter Two Wednesday after work DT UT, a coffee bar on the Upper East Side No, I had not left my cretin of a blind date in the middle of cappuccino, mango sorbet, and a vulgar story about his friend's bachelor party just because Nick Jones, ex-love of my existence, had called and "desperately needed to talk to me." Leave one nightmare for another? No, thanks. I might have been in love with Nick, but I wasn't a dum-dum. Nick Jones, I knew, had only one thing on his mind, and it wasn't stringsfree sex with me. It was Tamara Arm.
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Nick slumped in his overstuffed chair and picked at his chocolate Rice Krispies Treat. "Tamara sounded a little mad that I called her while she was on a date, but what was I supposed to do, Mads ? just let her be out with some other guy? I mean, we just broke up a week ago, and she's already seeing someone else?" He slurped at his iced mocha and slumped down even more. I nodded empathetically. Pathetic thing was, I did understand. All too well. I knew exactly what it felt like to be in love with someone who was with someone else. After Nick had dumped me a month ago for Tamara, I'd stood outside his apartment building staring up at his 17th-floor window during a few thunderstorms myself. As he flicked Rice Krispies on the floor and sulked, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Did I mention that Nick was gorgeous? Think Billy Crudup. Did I also mention he was very dynamic, very New York, very six-one, 175 pounds, and very...very? I'd met Nick at Cashmere Cosmetics, where I was a junior copywriter and he was a product brand manager. It had taken me six months to work up the courage to flirt with him, and I'd been beyond shocked when he'd asked me out for a drink three months ago. I'd thought he wanted to talk about Cashmere's Mighty Mascara campaign. But he'd wanted to just talk about everything on his mind?and eat sushi?and drink good wine at a little outdoor place he knew?and kiss me good-night, then ask me out for a weekend date. He'd said I was "differently bookish," a damned good copywriter, and that he'd always wanted to date a "brain." My eyes were "exquisitely expressive," he'd told me. Nick Jones was the first guy who'd ever kissed my eyelids. The first amazing guy to want me. He'd made me feel as though I was special. For almost two months. But Cashmere Cosmetics and junior copywriters hadn't been enough for the guy who'd bagged a wanna-be supermodel named Tamara Arm and a hotter job as a senior product manager for Lancôme. Make him forget all about Tamara Arm! I mentally told myself in pep-squad fashion. Hit him with your?your?something, anything. "Uh, so guess what, Nick? I've been assigned to write the packaging copy for Mighty Mascara! Isn't that great? Usually senior copywriters score the hot new products, but my boss thinks I'm ?" "This is her most recent head shot," he interrupted, pulling a glossy 8 x 10 out of an envelope from his knapsack. "God, isn't she beautiful?" he whispered in awe. "Stunningly, achingly beautiful?" I stared at the smiling, perfect, not-even-airbrushed face of Tamara Arm, boyfriend stealer and boyfriend thrower-away. There was no need to answer Nick. His question had been rhetorical. Nick sighed again. "She wouldn't even say why, Mads. Why did she dump me? What did I do wrong? That's all I want to know so I can be a better boyfriend." He slumped again and flicked a few more Rice Krispies off his plate and onto the floor. To me! So you can be a better boyfriend to me! Now it was my turn to slump. "Why did you and I break up, Mads?" he asked, sitting up in his chair and staring hopefully at me. Those dark brown eyes were looking right into mine. A dimple struggled to form. He took my hand and held it in both of his. I almost jumped into his lap, almost told him it didn't matter why, that what mattered was that we were back together, a couple. "Mads, will you do something for me?" Anything. Anything! I nodded. "List my top five, biggest problems as a guy and a boyfriend so that I figure out where I went wrong with Tam. I have to know."
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My fudge-blondie sunk to the bottom of my stomach. I couldn't think of one problem, let alone five. Oh, wait a minute. I thought of something: You broke my fucking heart! "Nick, it probably had nothing to do with you at all. She probably met that other guy, fell in love, and didn't mean to hurt you. She probably said, 'It's not you, it's me,' right?" Yeah, just like what happened with us? Nick fell back against his chair with a sigh. "Actually, she said, it's not me, it's you, never call me again. But that's it. That doesn't tell me anything ? what I need to change or do to get her back. I'd do anything, Mads. Anything." Slump. What the hell was so special about Tamara Arm anyway? She was just a wanna-be, just another gorgeous woman in New York City. Big deal! There were gazillions of models gliding around Manhattan on their 10foot-long legs. Tamara was pretty. That was it. That was all she had going for her. After all, any woman with a brain in her head wouldn't have dinner with a guy wearing sunglasses. And she wouldn't have broken up with Nick Jones, perfection in human, masculine form. Beauty. That was what Nick wanted. A pretty ? Duh! You fool, I mentally scolded myself. How could I have forgotten that I was entering a beauty pageant? That would definitely puff me up in Nick's shallow eyes. And this is my girlfriend, Maddie, he'd tell everyone, pride filling those amazing dark eyes. She's competing for the Miss Yorkville title! Just think, I almost lost her. I popped up straight in my chair, slid my half-eaten fudge-blondie under the New York Times that someone had left on the table, sucked in my stomach and pretended someone was pulling my head up with a string (Be-a-Model-or-Just-Look-Like-One tip from an old Barbizon brochure). "Um, Nick, guess what? I'm entering the Miss Yorkville pageant! I'm doing it in honor of my mom. You remember I told you she was Miss Yorkville 1972 and ?" Nick shot up straight and grabbed my hand again. It had worked. I was brilliant. Playing his shallow game, yes. But brilliantly! "Tam's planning to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant!" Nick practically shouted. "God knows why, since it's such small beans. Ever since she did that layout for Glamour magazine, she's almost an It girl! Cosmetic companies want to sign her, bigger modeling agencies want to rep her, but she keeps saying she's not ready to make any decisions so, of course, everyone's interested in her." Especially you. My choco-banana smoothie joined the fudge-blondie in turning into sludge in my stomach. I felt utterly ill. The Wanna-Be was entering my pageant. My mother's pageant. The pageant that was supposed to fulfill my mother's dream for me, make my father and the step-monster approve of me and impress Nick into wanting me back. My small-beans pageant that regular me could enter. Why would Tamara Arm want to compete for the Miss Yorkville title, anyway? It made no sense. I'd recognized her from clothing ads and a couple of television commercials for shampoo even before she'd turned up in the lobby of Cashmere a month ago for a model "go-see" and stolen Nick from my fragile grasp. She had already sort of "made it." She was probably too much of an airhead to realize she was blowing her own career by not moving on to bigger and better gigs. How dare that tall, gawky thing enter my pageant! Tamara probably wasn't even from Yorkville. Are you there, God? It's me, Maddie. Can you please make Tamara break a nail so that she won't enter the pageant on Saturday? Thanks. While I was trying very hard not to burst into tears, Nick, apparently, was brainstorming. "Mads, I know how to get Tam back. And you're the only person who can help me!" Chapter Three Wednesday Evening
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My humble abode on Second Avenue at the corner of 71st Street, above the Falafel King takeout The minute I'd gotten home from my depressathon with Nick, Heidi had taken one look at my sad-sack expression and mixed a pitcher of strong margaritas and suggested facials. We were now sitting on the futon in our tiny living room, our Cashmere Kiwi-Extract Masques hardening nicely, Alanis Morissette seething about betrayal on our CD player. Heidi, who'd been my roommate and best friend for five years, ever since we met as copy assistants at Cashmere Cosmetics, had recently started dating a very cute guy in New Product Development. She was the resident expert on men, having actually once lived with a guy, so I tended to listen to her advice, even if she occasionally arranged blind dates with pinkie lifters like Rob Carvel. She asked, "So?" about 10 times, meaning: qué pasa with Nick? but I was too busy biting my lip around the kiwi mask to answer. Whenever I did something I knew was wrong or just plain bad for me as a person on this earth, I got quiet. Heidi knew that. She threatened to turn off the water supply and let my mask harden into plaster unless I told her what happened. And something did happen. Something really beyond awful. I told her. Heidi (mouth wide-open): "He wants you to what? Tell him no way. Tell him to go fu?" Me (sheepish): "Uh, we sorta made a deal." Heidi raises one perfectly plucked strawberry-blond eyebrow. Me (fake cheery): "Well, guess who agreed to come to dinner with my father, the step-monster, and the teen singing sensation? Nick, my 'darling' boyfriend!" Heidi (mouth still open): "You and Nick got back together?" Me (biting lower lip): "Uh, not exactly. He's just going to pretend he's still my boyfriend, as a favor to me." Heidi (eyes narrowed): "And in return?" Me (running into the tiny bathroom): "Time to wash off the mask. Can't talk now!" Heidi follows me. Stares at me. Taps foot. Me: "Uh, I sorta promised him that, in return for pretending he's still my boyfriend during the big dinner, I'd befriend Tamara at the pageant meeting on Saturday and, uh, talk him up." Heidi (with expression of pure disgust): "Let me guess. So that she'll realize she was a fool for dumping him and run back into his waiting arms." Me ? looking anywhere but at Heidi. Heidi: "Well, that's odd, Maddie, because I thought you were in love with the guy." Me ? burying my face in washcloth. Rrrrrring! Me ? trying to make a beeline for the telephone to escape the all-knowing Heidi.
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Heidi (sticks arm out across the bathroom doorway): "Let the machine get it. We're not done here, Maddie. We have a lot of work to do." ...leave a message for Heidi or Maddie.... Beep! "Madeline, dear, it's I-vy." The step-monster always drew out her name as though she were Southern, and she was the only person on Earth who called me Madeline. "Just a gentle reminder for you to make reservations no later than tomorrow at the Mesa Grill for dinner next Friday night. The three of us and you and that darling boyfriend of yours. We can't wait to see Nick again! Your father is so impressed that you've snagged a catch like him! Oh, if you only knew how worried we both were that you were all alone for weekends and corporate social events and holidays and ? I mean, of course, you know you're always welcome to fly out to the coast, dear. Oh, goodness, look at the time. I'd better dash. You tell that handsome beau of yours we can't wait to see him again!" She added three sickening kissing sounds ? "One from me, one from Daddy, and one from Ariel!" ? and then the machine gratefully clicked off. Heidi: "I'll go erase that message and mix another pitcher of margaritas." I nodded over the lump in my throat. The three of us. Not the four of us and my darling boyfriend. Three. Her, my father, and Ariel. A family I wasn't a part of. My family wasn't mine. My fake-boyfriend-for-a-dinner wasn't mine. Heidi (hands me frosty glass full of frozen raspberry margarita): "Repeat after me ? everything is going to be okay." Sure it was. I'd send the guy I loved back to the woman he loved, and I'd impress my parents with a "boyfriend" who was basically bribing me to be said "boyfriend." Everything was going to be very not okay. *** Friday My cubicle, Cashmere Cosmetics, 17th Floor, Flatiron District Instead of writing copy for the packaging of Mighty Mascara, I was staring at a blank computer screen, in absolute panic. Tomorrow was E-Day for the Miss Yorkville pageant. Anyone who wanted to enter had to show up with an application (from a local weekly newspaper), two photos (a head shot and a body shot), and a 250-word essay on what being Miss Yorkville would mean to her. My mom's face floated into my mind. Wouldn't it be something if you were crowned Miss Yorkville, too?. I peered to my left, then to my right. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, which was nothing unusual. I typed a heading: What Being Miss Yorkville Would Mean to Me by Maddie Simon. Hannah Simon's beautiful face seemed to float on the screen. You're such a beauty, Maddie, she used to coo to me when I was little. My little beauty's gonna be Miss Yorkville someday just like her mama! No offense to my dad, but he was the one I took after, looked like. Not my gorgeous mother. I wasn't a beauty. I'd found out she'd been lying the minute I entered elementary school. And the lie had been confirmed when boys hadn't been interested in plain-Jane me in middle school, high school, or college. I was okay-looking, I knew that. Even cute, if my hair behaved and I wore a little Mighty Mascara to enhance my eyes. But I wasn't Hannah Simon. And I'd never be Tamara Arm. Why the hell was I entering this stupid pageant, anyway? For your mother, you self-absorbed, whining child! "You're entering the Miss Yorkville pageant?"
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I whipped around to find my boss's boss ? CEO Irwin Cashmoil, who Heidi and I referred to as the Moil ? staring at my computer screen, reading the start of my essay. I would say, Hel-lo, personal, with a lot of snappish attitude, but, um, that might get me fired even faster. The Moil's light blue bug eyes narrowed at me. "Follow me to my office, young lady. We've got some serious talking to do." Gulp. Was I about to get fired for working on personal stuff on company time? Maybe Cashmoil had also been reading my personal emails (I often enjoyed making fun of him to Heidi, who was three cubes over, by the way). I trailed after him to his corner office. He gestured to his guest chair, which I slowly sat down upon. "I am very impressed, Maddie!" the Moil lisped, sitting his five foot four inch, 250-pound frame in his very large desk chair. "Very impressed! You're getting a raise. A very big raise. If ? and this is a very big if, Maddie ? you actually manage to convince her to sign a contract with Cashmere." Huh? The Moil swiveled around in his chair, clapping his hands three times very quickly with an expression of pure delight. "You are one clever girl, Maddie Simon. Entering that pageant to get close to Tamara Arm in order to convince her to be the new face of our spring line. We all saw the little piece on the Post's page six about her plan to enter the pageant, but no one thought of infiltrating, Maddie. No one! Not those idiots in Marketing or P.R. You're clearly dedicated to the Cashmere family. You get Tamara Arm to sign as Cashmere's face, and you're getting promoted to senior copywriter with a very nice raise and an office. Hop to it!" Hop? I barely managed to stand. If I threw up all over his Persian rug, maybe he'd answer my prayers and shoot me. "Hey, Maddie, you know what's funny?" the Moil added with a chuckle. "For a second there, I thought you were entering the pageant for yourself, like a real contestant! Now get out there and write that killer application essay ? that's what'll carry you! Forget Mighty Mascara ? your new job is befriending Tamara Arm. If you don't make the finals of that pageant, Maddie, you just might find yourself demoted back to copy assistant. Hop to it!" Chapter Four Saturday afternoon Yorkville Neighborhood Association Center, 88th Street between First and York Avenues There were over 100 young women waiting in the Yorkville Neighborhood Association Center to hand in their entry forms for the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies. Beauties were aplenty, but so were normal-looking women like myself. On my left was a Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike, and on my right, a very zaftig woman wearing a tight red dress with a sequined Bigger Is Better, Baby! across her chest. No one was looking at me with "what does she think she's doing here" judging eyes. So far, so okay. I rubbed my sweaty palms on the DKNY black tank dress Heidi lent me for good luck and took a seat on one of the metal folding chairs. Everyone was checking each other out. I peered around for the Wanna-Be. The Wanna-Be who didn't wanna-be, after all. The Didn't-Wanna-Be. I was giving myself a headache. "Young ladies, welcome!" boomed a very attractive 40ish woman from the podium at the front of the large room. "I'm Vanessa Loomis, Miss Yorkville 1989 and coordinator of this year's pageant!" She paused for clapping. "All rightie!" she continued after a scattering of applause. "If you don't meet the following qualifications, I'm afraid you cannot submit an application packet and you'll have to leave now. One ? you must be between 21 and 29 years old." At least 20 women made muttering sounds, stood noisily, and left.
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"Two ? you must have proof that you live or lived for a period of at least one year in Yorkville." At least 30 women piled out in a huff. "Three ? you cannot be engaged or married." Ten more women slunk out, their diamond rings and wedding bands twinkling. "Four ? you must be of a character befitting the title and crown of Miss Yorkville." One woman got up, then said, "Just kidding!" and sat back down with a hearty chuckle. Vanessa didn't look amused. "All rightie!" she chirped to the now sparsely filled room of about 25 women. "The Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies began in 1912.?" I tuned out the history lesson and peered around for the Didn't-Wanna-Be. There she was, a few seats up on my left, looking more like Cameron Diaz than ever. Baby blue eyes. Baby blond hair wisping barely to her bare shoulders (tube top dress). She had a sweet expression, as though she was from a farm or something. She had huge breasts for a very thin, very tall woman, 10-foot long legs without a single vein, scratch, or mark, perfect, long white teeth, and skin so farm-fresh she appeared airbrushed. She didn't seem to have on much makeup either, maybe just a little mascara and shimmery lip gloss. I even knew what brand of lip gloss it was (not Cashmere) because a few weeks ago, I'd followed her all over the Upper East Side for a few hours, buying everything she bought, hoping to learn her secret at being her. I'd been walking off my sorrow over Nick and comforting myself with a double scoop of mocha-chip ice cream when I'd spotted her gliding down Third Avenue. So I'd tailed her. I'd ended up with a pair of $240 black leather stiletto boots from Bebe, weird vegetables from a corner market, the very lip gloss she was wearing today, and a Snapple diet iced tea. She'd stopped to give a homeless man a dollar, so I did, too. Then she'd disappeared into the 77th Street subway entrance. I had not been willing to follow her onto a 200-degree platform to wait for the 6 train with a million cranky New Yorkers. "Simmer down like young ladies, please," Vanessa singsonged into the microphone. She then went on and on with pageant history, then briefly discussed the competition, which would be held in a month: a 10-minute talent segment, a three-minute speech on why we should be crowned Miss Yorkville, and a three-minute speech on what Yorkville meant to us. Judges would be from three local businesses that were sponsoring the pageant. The winner would receive a crown worth 35 bucks in rhinestones, a 30-minute meeting with a modeling agency, $1,500 in cash, and her picture in a local weekly newspaper. "All rightie, young ladies, it's time to hand in your application packets, which should contain your essays, photos, and proof of Yorkville residency. Line up, please. Once you hand in your packets, you may leave. If you don't hear from us by Monday evening, you have not been chosen as a finalist for the Miss Yorkville 2001 title. Bye now!" I positioned myself in line behind the Didn't-Wanna-Be. Tamara was so tall she blocked my view of everyone in front of us. I was five-seven, and Tamara still towered over me by at least three inches in her annoyingly (flat) cute mules. Didn't Wanna-Be suddenly turned around and smiled at me. "Isn't this exciting!" she gushed, those babyblues twinkling. "I've always wanted to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant! My mom was Miss Yorkville 1975, and her mom was Miss Yorkville 1955, and her mom was Miss Yorkville 1935. They've been after me to enter, so here I am! This pageant means so much to me." The baby-blues misted. Huh. "My mom was Miss Yorkville, too," I said. "Nineteen seventy-two." Tamara beamed. "That makes us both legacies! Hey, after I hand in my packet, I'm going to the Starbucks on Second Avenue for a Chai Latte. Wanna come? I'd love to swap stories about our moms' reigns." Actually, I was sort of hoping you'd be a major bitch and not give me the time of day, therefore making me unable to fulfill my two nightmarish mandates of a) talking up my ex-boyfriend so you'll take him back; and b) convincing you to sign a spokesmodel contract with Cashmere.
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I'd rather earn $27,500 for the rest of my life than see her mug on every ad at work next spring. Why does she have to be nice? I wondered miserably. It was so unfair! The ex-boyfriend coincidence would come up the minute she asked what I did for a living, and then she'd agree to sign on as the face of Cashmere Cosmetics, because "you work there and you're a legacy, Maddie!" I'd lose Nick to her for good and earn back my reject-of-a-daughter-status with my father and the step-monster. Somehow I doubted a promotion to senior copywriter would impress them. "C'mon, Maddie. Let's go!" Didn't-Wanna-Be trilled, linking her arm through mine as though we were old friends. "We have so much to talk about!" No, we have nothing to talk about. Nothing! Both our cell phones rang at the same time. A reprieve. "Hello," we said into our respective phones. "Maddie! Irwin Cashmoil here!" Oh, God. What did the big boss want now? "Just checking to see that you're at the pageant meeting, making friends with our face-to-be. Wine and dine her for lunch, but keep it under 50 bucks. Talk up our spring line. I must have her as my spring face!" I ignored the Moil and trained my ear on Tamara's conversation. "Maddie, ya there?" the Moil was harping. "Maddie, are ya listening?" I wasn't. I was listening to Tamara's conversation. "Nick, I told you," she hiss-whispered into her phone. "It's over. Stop calling me!" Click. I sighed. "Uh, yeah, I'm here, Irwin. Don't worry about a thing. I'll try my best." The Moil coughed. "You mean you'll get the job done, Maddie. That's what a senior copywriter with an office, a big raise, and a credenza of her own would say. But maybe you like that little cubicle of yours." Asshole. "Uh, Irwin, I'd better go. I see you-know-who getting ready to leave. Better go after her and make friends!" Click. My cell phone rang again. "Irwin, don't worr?" But it wasn't Irwin. "Hey, it's me, Nick. Mads, you're not doing your job. You promised you'd talk me up. She won't speak to me. She keeps telling me not to call her and hanging up on me. You said you'd get her to take me back. Maddie, I'm desper?" "Uh, gotta go," I told him. "I see you-know-who about to leave. Better go after her and talk, talk, talk." Click. Tamara was chatting with the woman in front of her about the history of the pageant. I took a deep breath. We made it to the front of the line and handed in our application packets. Tamara squealed with excitement and grabbed my hand. "This is just too exciting! C'mon ? let's go celebrate with lattes and rehash everything!" What was that cliché about being led off your death? Chapter Five Saturday night My living room (where else?)
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"What could you possibly have had to say to Tamara Arm for two hours this afternoon?" Heidi asked, half watching a tape of last week's Sex and the City. "I'm surprised she could string together enough sentences to have that long a conversation." I'd been surprised, too. Turned out that it was very hard to hate Tamara's guts. She and I had gone to Starbucks and talked about why we wanted to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant, what we wrote our application essays about (our moms), and then we'd talked books, movies, hair-care products, and which Starbucks was the best for hanging out in for hours on one cup of coffee. Cashmere Cosmetics and Nick Jones had never ? thank God ? come up. Tamara didn't seem curious about where I worked, what I did, how much money I made, who I knew, or which Hamptons I hung out in when I wasn't entering beauty pageants. "So what are you gonna tell Nick and the Moil about why you didn't 'get the job done'?" Heidi asked while Samantha was having hot sex with a hot guy on Sex and the City. Good question. Nick expected me to send Tamara flying back into his loving arms. Cashmoil expected me to send Tamara flying into photo shoots as the face of Cashmere Cosmetics. And I expected me to do, um, neither for as long as I could get away with it. I shrugged at Heidi and flopped back against the futon. The phone rang and Heidi answered it, then disappeared with the cordless into her bedroom. From where I sat, I could see my Box of Memories under my bed. I forced my lug of a self up and slid out the box and brought it back to the futon. Everything that meant anything to me was in the box. I pulled out my mom's Miss Yorkville '72 banner and her old entrance essay and finalist speech. I traced a finger over the photo of her beaming as she was crowned and handed a bouquet of red roses. "I'm trying, Mom," I whispered to the ceiling. "I entered, just like you always hoped.?" Ladies and Gentleman...first runner up is...half a drumroll, please...Tamara Arm, who everyone expected to win! But in a stunning upset and following in her beloved mother's footsteps is...two drumrolls, please...our Miss Yorkville 2001, Miss Maddie Simon! Standing ovation! Thunderous applause! Bouquets of longstemmed red roses...Nick on his feet, clapping wildly, wiping away a tear of pride, yelling, "That's my girlfriend!" My father, handing out cigars and declaring, "That's my baby!" The step-monster and Ariel outshined. Irwin Cashmoil announcing that I was the new face of Cashmere Cosmetics.... My heart squeezed in my chest. I wasn't going to make the finalists, let alone feel that crown on my thick head. I'd accomplished nothing ? except for not being disqualified. Winning was a pipe dream, like Nick's love. But it was hard not to fantasize. If I won the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies, Nick would take notice. Suddenly, I'd be bookish and beautiful, whereas the Didn't-Wanna-Be would only ever be beautiful. Nick would listen when I was talking about things that were important to me, like my job or my family. Instead of quickies to make sure he didn't miss Heidi Klum or Pamela Anderson on the Tonight Show, he'd make very slow, very passionate, very loving love to me. Then again, the Miss Yorkville crown hadn't been enough to keep my dad from dumping my mom for another woman. Tears stung the backs of my eyes and I blinked them away hard. I shoved everything back in the box, slid it far under my bed, and flopped onto the futon, my heart blobbing in my chest. What was enough? What the hell did men want? What did you have to be? Heidi returned to the living room with a bowl of fat-free mocha-chip frozen yogurt in one hand, and her cosmetics box in the other. She handed me the bowl and put the box next to me on the futon. Then she stuffed my long, thick hair into a scrunchie and studied my face before reaching for Cashmere's Creampuff Foundation. Twenty minutes later, the greatest friend in the world had finished my trial makeover for my big dinner with the Simons and Nick. Plus, Heidi had pointed out, the future Miss Yorkville should have a glam new look for when she was crowned, right? Thank God for Heidi.
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We finished watching Sex and the City and set the VCR to tape tomorrow night's new episode. After all, if Nick came to his senses and wanted me back, I'd have better things to do than watch television ? things that would put Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte to shame. *** Very late Saturday night My bed (alone, as usual) Buzzz! Buzzz! Buzzz! Buzzzzzzzz! Who the hell was buzzing the buzzer at ? I looked at my alarm clock ? two a.m.! Furious, I stomped out of bed and pressed the intercom. "What!" I snapped. "Mads, it's me, Nick. I gotta talk to you!" Had my dream come true? I pressed the buzzer to let him in, then ran to the bathroom to calm down my hair, brush my teeth and put on a little mascara. I threw off my Yankees T-shirt and white cotton undies and pulled on a black thong and my butt-skimming Victoria's Secret red satin robe, which I tied loosely enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. A spray of Chanel's Coco, and I was ready. Very ready. I heard him clacking up the steps. I unlocked and waited. Knock. Knock. Knock. I peered through the peephole. There he was, tortured expression and all. I opened the door and he lunged in and flung himself onto the futon. "I gotta know, Mads," Nick said, running a hand through that silky brown hair and sitting up straight. "Did you talk to her about me today? What did you say? What did she say? Tell me every detail. Verbatim. Don't leave a thing out. Not a thing." If he noticed my fuck-me outfit, he was doing a great job of hiding his sexual desire for me. Deep sigh. I tightened the robe and plopped down next to him. I might as well have been wearing a space suit, complete with helmet. He stared at me intently with those Billy Crudup eyes, that Billy Crudup nose, that Billy Crudup mouth. Oh, what I'd done to that mouth during our mini relationship. Three months ago, in the very bed I'd moments ago been sleeping, Nick and I had made love for the first time. He wasn't exactly into foreplay, but I hadn't cared. He would strip off my clothes (without even noticing the new Victoria's Secret lacy bra and matching thong I always wore for our dates), practically rip off the bra and thong (he actually did tear my very expensive black lace bra), grab a condom from his wallet, jam it on with some force (which always made me nervous since he never stopped to squeeze the little tip), and then jam into me with the same said force. The feel of him on top of me and inside of me was all I needed, all I wanted, all I cared about. Minutes later, the grunting would begin, followed by, "I'll make it up to you, Mads. But I've gotta...I've gotta...I've gotta co?!" He'd then interrupt his monologue by going stock-still, let out one amazing grunt, look as though he'd just been shot with a machine gun, and then flop onto me with the above-mentioned force. He'd nuzzle my neck for five seconds, then roll over onto his back, make some appreciative noises, and close his eyes. I'd gaze at his closed eyelids, my heart thumping, and trace his cheek with my finger. Seven minutes later, he'd sit up, grab the remote, and turn on Seinfeld. He sort of always forgot to make it up to me. What I wouldn't give right now for him to rip off my little satin robe and just put his hands on me.
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"Mads, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do anything. All I can do is think about Tamara and wonder why she left me. Why? Why?" Nick shook his head and flung himself back on the futon, then lay down and covered his face with his hands. "Nick," I said, in my soothing tone. "I ?" But I had no idea what to say. I inched closer and could smell the Ivory soap he always used. "Nick, I really think that ?" But he was fast asleep. Or so I thought. He pulled me down on top of him and untied the robe. Chapter Six Sunday morning My futon with the New York Times "You slept with him?" Heidi, with an expression of incredulous disgust, was staring into my bedroom at the horizontal hairy legs visible on my bed through my ajar bedroom door. Nick was fast asleep. "Maddie! I can't believe you! You slept with him!" "I wish," I said, putting the Arts and Leisure section of the Times on the tiny coffee table and taking a sip of my coffee. "I didn't sleep with him. I slept next to him, but that's about it. He came over last night practically crying his eyes out over Tamara. He pawed me for three minutes, then told me that for a second he'd hallucinated that I was her. When he realized it was me, he actually tied my robe for me, then walked into my bedroom, took off his jeans and shoes, flopped on his stomach and went to sleep, clutching my teddy bear." Heidi rolled her eyes. "And this is the guy you love." I gnawed my lower lip. "You don't ?" "No, Maddie, you don't understand." Rrrrring! We let the machine get it. "Madeline, dear, It's I-vy! Did you make the reservations yet? Tell that darling Nick of yours that your father has an article from the L.A. Times he thinks Nick would enjoy. It's Nick this and Nick that with your dad. Oh, you should have heard him talking about you at the party we went to last night, how his daughter snagged one of New York's most eligible bachelors just when he was starting to think you were a lesbian! Oh, dear, look at the time. Gotta run. Remember, Mesa Grill for five people at seven sharp on Friday. The three of us and you and the catch of the century! Bye now!" There was no need to dignify anything the step-monster had just said with commentary. But it stung. Bad. "I just need Nick to show up for the dinner on Friday, Heidi. Pretend he's my boyfriend. Pretend he's wild about me. Is that so wrong?" Heidi pointed at me with her cream-cheese-and-lox-topped bagel. "What's so wrong is that you want much more than that, Maddie. You're in love with a total jerk. I hate to say it, but I'm your best friend, and I'm going to tell you the truth. The guy is self-absorbed and doesn't even care about you. He only cares about himself and a woman he can't have. Think about last night, Maddie. The guy is pathetic!" I'd storm into my bedroom and slam the door, but I didn't want to wake up Nick. *** Monday morning
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My cubicle at work My mouth dropped open and the phone fell from my hand and clattered onto my desk. "Hello, Miss Simon?" I heard a faint voice say from the receiver. "Miss Simon, are you there?" I grabbed the phone. "Uh, yes. I'm here. Just a little shocked." My heart was booming in my chest. "Congratulations again on making the finals for the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies. You must show up at the Yorkville Neighborhood Association this Wednesday evening at 7 p.m. for a meeting with the other finalists to discuss pageant procedure." My mouth was still open. I'd done it. Me, the undistinguished, indistinguishable Maddie Simon. The girl who couldn't sing or dance or interest her own father in a conversation. I was a finalist for the pageant my mother had won! "Thanks! Thanks a lot!" I told the pageant coordinator's assistant. "I'll be there!" I hung up the phone and wanted to burst into song. I grabbed the framed photo of my mother off my desk and hugged it, then held it up to my face. "I did it, Mom," I told her. "I did it!" I was about to run down the hall to Heidi's cube and share, but my You've Got Mail! pinged with another "urgent" email. I'd had two "urgent" emails from Cashmoil, six from Nick, and one from Ivy (who wanted to change our dinner reservations on Friday from 7:00 to 7:30). I hit Open Messages. Another new message from the Moil, asking if I'd heard from the pageant officials, if I were that much closer to securing his spring face. Jerk. I ignored Cashmoil's messages and flicked through Nick's. Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? That was following by another message listing what he considered to be his Woman-Enticing Resume. I was to remind Tamara of the following about Nick at my next opportunity: 1. I look as good in a T-shirt and Levi's as I do in an Armani tux. 2. I've been told that my tongue is one of my best features, if you know what I mean. 3. I earn just under six figures and enjoy lavishing that well-deserved income on the special lady in my life. 4. Mothers and grandmothers adore me. And fathers and grandfathers are impressed by me. Oh, and Mads, be sure to remind her of my other qualities, you know, all that sappy stuff, like that I'm loyal, a great listener, caring, supportive, and the kind of man who'll stand by his woman through thick and thin, good or bad, for better or for worse. Oh, wait a minute, don't say that part, or she might expect a ring. I am NOT ready for that. Later, ? NJ He was kidding, right? He didn't really consider himself caring or supportive or a good listener, did he? I'd grant him the list of four above, but that was it. Then again, maybe he was all of those other good things. Maybe he was a good listener and caring and supportive and loyal when it came to Tamara. Maybe that side of him simply hadn't come out with a woman he didn't love: me. But if he had been all those wonderful things with Tamara, why had she dumped him? Why? That question was the one thing Nick and I had in common. I let out a deep breath and picked up the phone, figuring I'd give it one last shot. One last shot at impressing him. You're a sadist, Maddie. Or was that a masochist? I punched in Nick's work number. "Jones," he said in his bored voice.
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"Nick, it's me, Maddie. Guess what?" "You talked to her? She's coming back to me? Oh, God, Mads, you don't know how happy you just made me. Thank you so much. I owe you big-time. At that dinner with your folks, I'm gonna make them think I'm nuts about you!" Stab. Stab. Stab. "Uh, Nick, actually, I was just calling to tell you how excited I am because I made the finals for the pageant! Isn't that amaz?" "What a relief! I was a little worried about you making the cut, and I didn't know how you'd hang around Tam otherwise and move in her circles if ?" Loyal, supportive, caring... My heart made its final plummet to my toes. "Uh, Nick, my other line's ringing." Click. I was about to crawl down the hall to Heidi's cube for commiseration when I remembered that I was supposed to be celebrating my victory. Heidi would kill me if I was depressed that Nick didn't give a flying fig that I'd made the finals ? or congratulate me, for that matter ? instead of whoo-hooing up and down the halls of Cashmere with my big achievement. Ping! You've Got Mail! I was about to take my hardcover dictionary and throw it at the computer when I noticed the email address:
[email protected]. I clicked open the message. I have to talk to you! It's urgent! ? Tam. Chapter Seven Wednesday evening Miss Yorkville Pageant Headquarters, Yorkville Neighborhood Association Center What Tamara had so urgently wanted to tell me was that she'd been named a finalist. Big surprise. She told me she'd been sure I'd made it, too. When I'd told the Moil the good news, his mouth had dropped open in shock. "Wow, Maddie, I never really thought you'd pull it off, excellent essay writer or not. Good work! Now go get our face! Earn that credenza!" Heidi and I had celebrated my big coup with a feast at my favorite Mexican restaurant. As for the Simons, I planned on telling them in person at dinner this weekend. I wondered if they'd even bother flying in for the pageant. They'd probably deem it too "small beans." The seven finalists (all very different types, sizes, and races) were handed brochures detailing the competition, a list of rules and regulations, discounts at the businesses that were judging and sponsoring the pageant, and a schedule of two more meetings to rehearse the order of the finalists for the competition and what direction to walk on and off the stage. "Let's go have dinner and celebrate!" Tamara suggested. "I can't wait to hear what your talent segment will be. I'm thinking of doing a six-minute watercolor painting. I was taking a watercolor class at the LearnItCenter, but I had to stop because my jerk of an ex-boyfriend kept hanging around outside the building waiting for ?" "Let's go have that drink!" I interrupted, not ready to hear her talk about Nick. Not ready for why, after all. We grabbed our tote bags and headed for the door. Screeeeeeeeaam! Tamara had let out one monster of a shriek. She was staring at the door, a murderous look on her face.
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Nick Jones was standing in the doorway, posed like a porn star. "That's it!" Tamara shouted. "I've had it. I'm going to kill him!" Tamara lunged for him, claws extended. *** Five minutes later East End Avenue in the upper 80s "He comes near me one more time, and I'm pressing charges. I've had it!" Tamara yelled. "That's right, you'd better run, you pathetic jellyfish!" she screamed at his retreating figure. I peered up East End Avenue in time to see Nick stop at the far side of 84th Street and duck behind a tree. He poked his head out and watched us turn and walk away. I closed my eyes and counted to 10. Nick ? the guy I dreamed about every night, the guy my parents were so impressed by ? was stalking his exgirlfriend and hiding behind trees. Heidi's words from the other night came back to me: And you love this guy. "I guess I should explain who that guy was," Tamara said as we resumed walking and turned onto 82nd Street. I took a deep breath. "Uh, Tamara, actually, um, I know him. We used to date." "Then I guess I don't need to tell you what an asshole he is." She wrinkled up her face and shook her shoulders as if to shake his creepy-crawlies off her. "He's good-looking, but that is all he has going for him. Isn't he the most self-absorbed, egotistical jerk you've ever known? I can't believe I lasted three weeks with him. I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt, sure he was just trying to impress me, that he'd calm down, that I'd get to know the guy inside, but there is no guy inside. He's just an empty shell. But I don't need to tell you that." I bit my lower lip. Did I know that? Okay, he was a little self-absorbed. Okay, a lot self-absorbed. But he was so...good-looking. So charming. So...impressive. For a guy like Nick Jones to want me, to think I was pretty, to think I was sexy... That had been enough for me. It had been more than enough. When he'd been my boyfriend, people noticed me. My family noticed me. I noticed me. Didn't that count for anything? Tamara just didn't understand. A woman who looked like her could have any guy she wanted. "Ugh, enough about him," Tamara said, a disgusted look on her face. "Here we are! The Arm's Inn!" We were standing in front of an Irish pub. This is where the woman who could win the Miss New York pageant wanted to have dinner? Then I connected the name of the pub to her last name. Did Tamara own the place? I followed her inside the cozy little crowded restaurant. "Hi, Mama!" Tamara said to the bartender. (Her mother was a bartender? Not a Lady Who Lunched on Madison Avenue?) The very pretty early-50s blonde rushed out from behind the bar and enfolded Tamara in a bear hug. "This is my friend Maddie," Tamara told her mother. "She's a finalist in the Miss Yorkville pageant, too. And a legacy ? her mom was a Miss Yorkville, just like you." Mrs. Arm congratulated me and asked who my mother was. I told her, and her mouth dropped open. "I was friendly with your mother! Hannah Simon taught me how to walk the Miss Yorkville 'way.' I was so sad when I heard she passed. She'd be so proud of you!"
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Tears stung the backs of my eyes. All I could do was smile weakly and nod. Mrs. Arm disappeared into the kitchen to "fix you beauty queens two house specials," and Tamara and I sat down in a booth. She told me that her parents (her mom was long widowed) had owned the pub for almost 30 years, and that she'd grown up in the two-bedroom apartment above. I was surprised. I'd figured she'd come from Park or Fifth Avenue and attended private schools. But she'd grown up right here in Yorkville and had gone to public school, just like me. "So where'd you meet that jerk, anyway, Maddie?" Tamara asked me. "I met him at a model 'go-see' at Cashmere Cosmetics. You couldn't pay me to even buy a lipstick from that company again!" There went the Moil's spring face and my credenza. "Uh, small world, Tamara, because I work for Cashmere. I'm in the advertising and promotion department. That's where I met Nick." "Wow ? it is a small world. So how long did it take you to dump Nick on his head?" she asked as her mother slid two steaming plates of corned beef and cabbage on our table. "You seem so smart, I'll bet you dumped him after a week. Sometimes it takes me so long to figure out when someone's got nothing inside. That's why I like to take my time making decisions." "Well, um, he sort of broke up with me. For you," I added in such a low, cracked voice I wondered if she heard me. Tamara peered at me. "I'm sorry, Maddie." She covered my hand with hers. "He is a superficial jerk, though. You do know that, right? If he broke up with you, it was because you were too good for him and it freaked him out. Trust me. He probably couldn't handle it, so he wanted bimbo eye-candy and went after me." I stared at her. "You're hardly a bimbo, Tamara." Tamara sliced her corned beef. "I know that. But he didn't ? and still doesn't. The more I tried to be myself with him, the more he resisted knowing me. He wasn't interested in me, Maddie." What the hell was she talking about? She shook her head and put down her fork. "I'd try to talk to Nick about my dreams of going back to college, but he'd cut me off and say, 'Who needs college when you could earn millions with your face and body?' I'd explain that I wanted to become a veterinarian one day, and he'd laugh and tell me I could buy a zoo with the money I'd earn as a model. He would stare at me, tell me how beautiful I was, and not listen to a single word I said. That's not what I want in a guy. And I doubt someone as pretty, smart, and together as you would want a guy like that, either. You deserve a great boyfriend, Maddie. Someone who really cares about you. Nick doesn't care about anyone. He only cares about himself and image." I stared at the cabbage, tears prickling the backs of my eyes. I'd been so wrong about Tamara. She wasn't only beautiful. She was a lot smarter than I was. Nick Jones was very guilty as charged. And I was guilty of the same thing. I'd been nutso over him because he was gorgeous and impressive; there was nothing else to like about him. I'd fallen in love because he made me feel validated as a person, as a woman. That was pathetic. I'd made the finals of the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies because of me. Me the person, me the woman. Weird. It was almost as though I'd validated myself. I had validated myself! My cell phone rang. Tamara excused herself to use the ladies' room. "Hello?" I managed to croak, hoping it wasn't Nick or the Moil calling to pressure me. All I wanted was to crawl off somewhere to think. "Mads, it's me, Nick. I saw you two turn up 84th, but then I lost track of you. Are you with her now? Are you telling her the stuff from my woman-enticing resume?"
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I turned toward the wall. "Nick, I wouldn't blame Tamara if she pressed stalking charges against you and got a restraining order. She doesn't want you in her life. You've got to let her go and move on with your own life." Silence. Then he said, "Oh, are you done with your little speech? Good. Because jealousy really doesn't become you, Mads. You stick to our bargain or you'll be having dinner with your family tomorrow night all by your lonely, dumped self." Click. Chapter Eight Wednesday night/Thursday morning, 4 a.m. My bed Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. *** Tursday, 12:30 p.m. My cubicle, lunchtime "Mads, I'm really, really sorry about the way I talked to you last night on the phone," Nick said, turning on a sheepish expression, which I was just beginning to realize he could affect on cue. He hadn't called to apologize or to ask if he could drop by at lunch to apologize. He'd just barged in, his usual MO, with take-out lunch for one. "Nick, I've done a lot of think?" "I know it must be really hard for you, Mads," he interrupted. He took a bite of his grilled chicken on focaccia bread, chewed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, popped a French fry into his mouth, then took a long gulp of his lemon-lime Gatorade. "I mean, I know you got hurt when I ended things between us. But when I laid eyes on Tam last month, I just flipped. I had to have her. You understood, right? And when she dumped me, man, you want to talk about pain? You don't know anything about it, sister. I'm just beside myself over her. So she wasn't really mad about me dropping by pageant headquarters last night, was she? I just wanted to congratulate her in person for making the finals, and she went and pulled a Buffy on me! So did she stay mad, or did reminding her of my good traits and my woman-enticing resume work its Nick Jones magic? And did?" I stared at his moving mouth, at his Billy Crudup face, his long, lanky, muscular body, his Prada clothes, his Soho haircut, and all I saw was a 32-year-old child. I'd loved this person for absolutely no reason at all. I wasn't about to wonder what I'd seen in him. I knew. And I was ashamed of it. Nick Jones was nothing more than everything Heidi and Tamara had said he was: a shell with nothing inside. Nothing. Except for a lot of gook and some serious issues. No need for a deep breath. "Nick, I'm going to tell you how to get Tamara back. " He brightened, put down the chicken sandwich and sat straight up. Those deep brown eyes looked into mine intently, waiting for my words of wisdom. "Nick, do you remember when you asked me to list your top five biggest problems as a guy and a boyfriend?" He nodded. "Remember how I couldn't think of even one?"
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He nodded and slurped his Gatorade. "Well, Nick, I've come up with thousands." His face fell. Then he smiled and gave me a playful sock on the shoulder. "You jokester! C'mon, tell me what you said, then what she said. Do you think there's a chance she'll take me back?" He took another slug of his Gatorade. I grabbed the bottle out of his hand and threw it in the little trash pail under my desk. "This is no joke. There's nothing funny about it. I. Am. Not. Joking. Not for a second." Nick eyed me. I could see him taking in my serious expression. "Okay, so tell me. I can take it. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, right? I mean, that's what this is all about, working on myself so that I can be a better boyfriend to Tam when she takes me back." I smiled my evil smile. And for the next 25 minutes, I listed everything that was wrong with him. Everything. I started with his narcissism and ended with his criminal habit of stalking. I threw in a litany of his crappy treatment of me. I spared nothing. On and on and on, I spoke. He opened his mouth to protest a few times, but clamped it shut each time when I backed up everything I said with cold, hard evidence. He slid lower and lower in my guest chair until he was almost horizontal. "One more thing, Nick," I said. "When you've thought long and hard about how you've behaved, how you treat people, what you're made of, I think you should email me an apology for Tamara, which I'll forward to her. I suggest you apologize for your despicable behavior these past weeks, and I want you to state that you now understand that no means no. You will add that you will never call her or try to see her again. And then, after you hit Send, I want you to find a good therapist." Nick sulked for a good five minutes, picking at threads in his Prada pants. Finally, he said, "But ?" "No, Nick. There are no buts." "Bu?" I shook my head slowly and his lips pressed shut. He stared at me for a good, long moment, then searched for answers in his tube of French fries. Finally, he nodded gloomily. I nodded back. "Look, I've got a ton of work to do on the Mighty Mascara packaging, so...I'll see you around, okay, Nicks?" He raised an eyebrow and stood up, still sulking. "But what about tomorrow night? Aren't I having dinner with you and the Simons, pretending we're hot and heavy? I've been craving the Mesa Grill's mahimahi for weeks." I looked at Nick and forgave him for being such an asshole. Then I forgave myself for not having realized he was one until now. The forgiveness lifted a 10-pound dumbbell off my chest, off my heart, off my head. I felt happier in that moment than I had in a very long time. "Actually, you're off the hook, Nick. I no longer need a pretend boyfriend. I'm fine on my own." I'm fine on my own. For the first time in my life, I owned those words. "But thanks for still being willing." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well, tell your dad and stepmother and the kid I said hi. They'll be disappointed I'm not there. They really like me." "You are absolutely right," I responded gleefully. "They adore you."
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He managed a weak smile, then sulked away down the hall. I intercommed Heidi and made plans to celebrate the lesson learned after work with enchiladas and margaritas, then called Tamara and made plans for lunch at the Arm's Inn on Saturday. And then, as though I were the Moil, I swiveled around in my desk chair with a delighted clap of my hands. *** Epilogue Two weeks later Tamara: To pay for college (pre-med at NYU), she signed a six-figure contract with Cashmere as the new spring face because "that's where Maddie works." Tamara and I meet for drinks/dinner at least once a week. (By the way, Sunglasses turned out to be her agent.) The Moil: Promoted me to senior copywriter with an office, a credenza, and a big, fat raise. Heidi: Enjoying her own promotion to senior copywriter with all the trimmings since I insisted she was my creative and intellectual partner on all Cashmere initiatives past, present, and future. The Moil bought it. Then again, it was true. The Simons: Booked a first-class flight to New York for the Miss Yorkville pageant. (It was a start. We'll see.) Rob Carvel (if you were curious): Called to say he'd read in some weekly rag that I'd made the finals of the pageant and would I like to have dinner soon? (No, I would not.) Nick: On a six-week-long yoga retreat in southern Arizona, no cell phones allowed. (Emailed me the apology, which I then promptly deleted.) Me: Fine on my own.
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Millionaires Don't Count by Sophie Weston Wealthy genius George Hunter wants to get to know PR exec Molly di Perretti better ? much better. The only problem is she hates millionaires. Can he change her mind and earn her trust? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Chapter One It was loathing at first sight. Well, it was loathing for Molly di Perretti. George Hunter seemed to look on it more as a game. George, she found, enjoyed games. Molly was the brightest young consultant at Culp and Christopher, London's coolest Public Relations agency. George Hunter was the client from hell that she had never wanted to work with. Unfortunately, George Hunter knew that. He knew it because he heard her say it. It was his own fault. Molly had not known he was there. Clients never came down onto the work floor at Culp and Christopher. That was one of the reasons it was a fun place to work. You could let off steam without having to worry about who was listening. Molly let off steam a lot. So, that day, she was not being discreet. She was kicking her heels against the black and silver bar stool, which she insisted gave her inspiration, and yelling into her hands-free phone. "I won't do it. I hate millionaires. There's nothing you can do with them." On the other end of the phone Jay Christopher, owner of the agency, disagreed. "Okay," said Molly, ultra fair-minded. "There's nothing I can do with them. I'm too young, too creative, and much, much too hip." Jay protested. Molly overrode him. "Millionaires don't want to be hip. They want to be warm and fuzzy. The only reason they employ a PR agent in the first place is so people forget how they made their millions." At the desk opposite her, blond Sam Smith winced. Sam was nominally Molly's boss. But at C&C; hierarchy was strictly theoretical. Sam was just better at keeping her temper. Now she mouthed, "Friend of Jay's." Molly cast her eyes to the ceiling and said to the phone, "Oh, great. Mate of yours is he, Jay? What else is wrong with him? No, don't tell me. He despoils the countryside? Employs child slaves in Asia? Smokes?" "None of the above," drawled a voice like a saxophone in a smoky New Orleans cellar. Molly whipped round so fast she fell off her bar stool. He caught her and sat her upright again, as if she was about four years old. No mean feat, that. Molly was five foot ten and no stick insect. Indeed, his eyes lingered appreciatively on her shadowed cleavage, as he restored her to the vertical. The rest of the office held its collective breath. Molly di Perretti was acknowledged to be a genius in her field. She was also known to have poured a full cup of coffee down the silk shirt of a client who came on to her. And she was glaring.
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But the newcomer stayed calm. "George Hunter," he said, holding out a hand. "Orun Software." Molly took his hand on autopilot. She looked stunned. Understandably. Not only was the man a client where no client should be, but he was gorgeous. Broad shoulders, slim hips, a mouth that looked as if it knew all there was to know about kissing ? and was willing to share the knowledge, if you asked nicely. Not, they all knew, that that would cut any ice with Molly. "Jay said I could wander round," said George, all Southern Gentleman charm. Molly's futuristic head of Day-Glo orange hair seemed to fizz with indignation. "You mean Jay told you to soften me up," she said curtly. She spun round and shouted at the telephone, "The answer's still no, Jay, you Machiavelli. Millionaires are the clients from hell. And another thing ? George Hunter leaned round her and cut the call. No hesitating. He took one look at the state-of-the-art machine and pushed a couple of buttons. Abby and Sam exchanged startled glances. But he was ignoring everyone in the office except Molly. "I think we need to talk about this," he said in that alluring drawl. "Come and have a coffee. Tell me ? just for the sake of argument ? if I asked you, how you would set about turning this boring old millionaire hip?" Boring? Old? Molly gulped. She recognized mockery and she was not used to it. To her fury and everyone else's astonishment, she blushed to her eyebrows. George Hunter smiled. All old-fashioned charm, he took her arm. And walked her out of the office. And Molly ? Molly ? went with him like a sleepwalker. Chapter Two George Hunter was a stranger in town. But he did not ask Molly where to go. He led her unerringly past the chain coffee shops to the little lace-curtained café run by two Polish sisters who made the best coffee in Kensington, the heart of fashionably exclusive West London. He summoned a waitress, by sheer animal magnetism as far as Molly could see. "How do you take your coffee?" "B-black. "She shook her head at cream pastries and he gave the order. Then sat back and considered her thoughtfully. "So you don't like millionaires." Molly pulled herself together. It was difficult with warm brown eyes wandering over her in leisurely appreciation, but she managed it. "What's to like?"
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His eyes glinted wickedly. "Is that a challenge?" She hadn't meant it as a challenge. But Molly had one rule: You never, ever run away. Her chin lifted. "Take it any way you want." He nodded. "You know, you interest me." "Oh gosh. You really know how to flatter a girl." She widened her eyes at him. They were sea green and eloquent, with heartbreakingly long lashes. Smitten copywriters had been known to compose odes to them. George Hunter did not look as if he was about to break out in poetry. He looked amused, entertained, and very slightly wary. "That's no use. What I need to know is how to get you interested in me," he said coolly. Molly sat up straight. "We are talking professionally, of course." His lids dropped. "Take it any way you want," he quoted back at her. Fortunately the waitress brought their coffee then, so she was off the hook for an answer. When the woman had gone, he said, "I'm a bit disappointed, I admit." Molly stiffened. "Oh?" "Well, you haven't asked why I want a PR consultant." "You want everyone to love you. That's why anyone wants a PR consultant." "You're as smart as a whip, aren't you?" Just briefly there was a hint of annoyance in the slow-as-molasses voice. "Why should I want people to love me?" She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you want to run for president one day." He said flatly, "I want to sell a car." She was so startled she stopped playing it cool. "A car? But I thought you started up a software company." "I diversified." "But ? a car!" "I trained as an engineer. And I like solving problems." Yes, definitely annoyed. "What problems?" "Now you're sounding much more professional," he said, so approvingly that Molly wanted to hit him. "It's revolutionary. Lighter, fewer moving parts, runs on sugarcane residue. Renewable energy source." She sipped her coffee, frowning. This was not what she expected from a millionaire friend of supercool Jay Christopher.
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"If it's that good, it won't need PR," she pointed out. "Everyone's desperate for a green car." "Yeah, but nobody knows me here. And I'll have to start up in Europe. Back home we don't get real excited about saving oil." "I ? see."He leaned forward. "I don't want you to make me look warm and fuzzy. Or even hip. Just a reasonable man with a good idea." Put like that, it was difficult to turn him down. Which was no doubt what he intended. Molly eyed him broodingly. "It's not my usual field, but ?" "We're going to make a great team." She looked into eyes that were much, much too warm, and felt a warning flutter up her spine. "No teamwork," she said with determination. "You brief. I implement. That's the way it works." "But I like to work closely with my consultants." "Tough. I don't." He raised an eyebrow. It made him look like the God of the Underworld. Relaxed and amused but still, definitely, a Dark Lord. Molly said as much to herself as to him, "Don't do that." He looked even more amused. "Do what?" "Purr at me." He laughed aloud. "You're very jumpy." She said between her teeth. "I am not jumpy. I just don't do tall, dark, and handsome." He considered that. "Seems a pity," he murmured at last. She gasped. Then, reluctantly, laughed. "No false modesty about you, is there?" "No false anything. What you see is what you get." His eyes locked on hers. She felt hot all of a sudden. "I hope not," she muttered. He considered that for a moment. The Lord of the Underworld considering a human's destiny. Then he gave a small nod. "I think I might just have to do something about that." Chapter Three "Well?" said Sam.
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Molly had been back from coffee with her millionaire for a full hour, in which time she had said nothing. Now she came out of her reverie with a jerk. "What?" "Him with the drop-dead gorgeous smile and the devil's eyebrows. Are you going to take him on, or not?" "No chance. Absolutely not. No way." Sam waited. "He thinks I'm jumpy," Molly burst out. "And he likes teamwork." "Bad," agreed Sam, shaking her head. "And that car of his! Fueled by sugarcane! Pure science fiction." "I know," said Sam." Jay says he's brilliant but no one will take his car seriously." "Wow, what a surprise," muttered Molly. "Don't worry. He rang Jay after you talked. Said he thought the idea might be too advanced for us." Molly stiffened at that. "He means too advanced for me." "He didn't say that ?" "Just because I wouldn't flirt with him." Sam began to look alarmed. "How dare he? Too advanced for me? Nothing's too advanced for me." Molly's eyes snapped. "Where's that brief? Give it here." It was on Sam's desk where Jay Christopher had left it in Molly's absence. Sam picked it up but she did not hand it over. "It needs a really light touch," she said warningly. "I'm the lightest there is," said Molly with an evil smile. "Hand it over. *** Jay Christopher rang his friend to tell him. "Congratulations. I'm not even going to ask you how you swung it. But you've got yourself a good deal. Molly di Perretti is the best." "Hmm," said George. "The lady seems a bit narrow-minded to me. Told me she doesn't like millionaires." Jay was entertained. "Molly's an original. You'll just have to change her mind." "I'm planning to," said George coolly. ***
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From the moment Molly agreed to take on the assignment, George Hunter turned into the original Nightmare Client. It was no consolation that Molly had known he would. Or that the rest of the office hid in broom cupboards to catch a glimpse of him when he came in for a client consultation. She found out what he meant about teamwork. She proposed a strategy. He only agreed to the stuff he thought might be fun, regardless of her advice. And then he went and changed his mind after she had set up the media interviews. In the end, she banged her notebook down on the desk and stood over him, hands on her hips. "You're blasting my reputation to bits." He used those wonderful brown eyes to look wounded. "You never let me get anywhere near your reputation." "My professional reputation. I've set up two TV interviews for you this week. You've blown them both off." He shrugged. "I'm still on East Coast time. I can't get up at five to do some breakfast show. I'd just sleep through it." She sighed in exasperation. "You mean you need a minder." "You offering?" he said hopefully. Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "I," she said with emphasis, "am in line for an industry award. I'm not letting you torpedo it because you can't get out of bed in the morning." "Sounds promising," he said encouragingly. She ignored him. "I'll set up one more round. We can break the back of the local stations if we go on the road for a few days." "We?" For a moment he looked surprised, then hid it smoothly. "That sounds real nice." "No it doesn't. It sounds like hard work." "You're going to get yourself another one of those awards if you look after me like that, chère." His voice had an edge to it. Molly sent him a long, level look. She was beginning to learn how to deal with George Hunter. "Not a chance. Any idiot can sell rich people." George raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me? What are you saying here?" "I'm saying," said Molly with relish, "that millionaires don't count." Chapter Four George was not used to apologizing for being a millionaire. He was not about to start now. Especially not to a woman who dyed her hair orange and painted her nails black. And had a body that was beginning to figure in his dreams. Though he was not thinking about that at the moment. He asked, "How old are you?"
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Molly blinked. She had the most amazing blue-green eyes. Sometimes ? when he startled her ? they looked misty and vulnerable. Not at all like the razor-tongued hip chick she claimed to be. "Twenty-three. Why?" "Twenty-three. That's young to be so set in your ways." She stiffened and her eyes stopped looking misty. "Set in my ways?" she echoed, stunned. "This prejudice against millionaires," he drawled. "What have we ever done to you?" Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Employed me," she said literally. "And been a damned nuisance about it." George was thoughtful. "And that's all? Or has some tycoon dumped you in the past and the rest of us are getting his punishment." Her body twitched. For a moment he thought she might break into a little war dance. But she did not. She gritted her teeth so hard that he could see the muscle working in her jaw. "Nobody dumps me," she said grandly. He looked skeptical. "Look," said Molly. "Millionaires come in two types, right? Those who got lucky. Boring. Those who worked for it. Obsessed. Not a lot I can do with either, professionally." George absorbed this. There was more truth to it than he liked. He began to see that this was a battle he might not win. "And personally?" he murmured in that hot-Southern-night drawl that he knew made her shiver, no matter how much she didn't want it to. She shivered. And stopped herself. And glared. "None of your business," she said curtly. George gave her the slow, intense, up and under look that had brought more experienced women than Molly di Perretti out in a cold sweat. "And if I make it my business?" he purred. She met his eyes. No cold sweat. Not much of anything at all. He had the feeling he had opened the door into a vast ice room. "Then I quit." He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "You're serious." "Believe it," said Molly suddenly sounding a lot older than twenty-three. He was silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "Okay. You win. But you've got to give the car a chance. Hate me all you like ? but don't hate the car. In fact, you'd better come and be introduced."
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*** Which was how he got her out to his mansion on the banks of the Thames River, on one of the most perfect days in spring. It was not the success he hoped. She looked at the bridal shower of cherry trees in blossom without enthusiasm. "Not a country girl?" "I was born in Milan, raised in Glasgow. The nearest I got to country was Bologna, when I ?" She broke off. "When you ?" he prompted. But she shook her head. "Where's this car?" He gave up and took her to the workshop. To his surprise she didn't hover in the doorway, keeping her smart charcoal trouser suit out of the way of oil and grease. She mooched around the shelves, picking bits of metal up and examining them. "It's like a set for Mad Max!" George was oddly hurt. "I'm an inventor. What did you expect?" "Not that." She looked at him curiously. "I thought the car was a rich man's whim." She sounded stiff. "I apologize." He laughed. "Oh, I'm the original Professor Brainstorm." And she smiled at him. She smiled. Suddenly. Blindingly. No reservations. No shadows. He saw the curious child she had been and the competent woman she had become. He saw fun and vulnerability and intelligence and solitariness. And passion. He wanted it. All. He wanted it so much it took his breath away. She said, laughing, "Okay, you've made your point. I forgive you for being a millionaire. Satisfied?" "Not in a million years," George said to himself silently. Chapter Five Their harmony did not last. Once a Nightmare Client, always a Nightmare Client. It took less than one hour on the road to show Molly that. "Your itinerary," George told her. They were driving up the motorway in his fire-engine-red sports car. He had canceled the train tickets she booked. "I've made a few changes." "Oh?" said Molly coldly. "Yes. I don't like staying in city centers. The traffic keeps me awake." She looked at his broad shoulders and the strong, relaxed hands on the wheel. "I can see you're a bundle of nerves."
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His eyebrows twitched together, annoyed. "No, I can handle it, if I have to. But why be uncomfortable? I've booked us into country house hotels instead." Molly sighed. "Then the owls will keep you awake." He sent her a quick sideways glance. "Ah, but I'm used to the crickets on the bayou," he drawled, soulful. "So much more romantic, don't you think?" She looked rigidly ahead. "You're the client," she said woodenly. "Do what you want." "What do you think is romantic, Molly di Perretti? Tell me your dream." "Sleeping in my own bed," said Molly, goaded. And at once thought, I shouldn't have said that. The atmosphere in the car could not have been more sultry if they had been out on the porch in one of his Louisiana hot summer nights. She felt her skin prickle with awareness and thought in despair, What is happening to me? At last he drawled, "That could be arranged, chère," and she could hear the smile in his voice. The man was sex on wheels. Just sitting next to him in a confined space made the sexual tension as thick as butter. Yet he had not said one thing she could object to. Heck, he had not even asked her if she had a boyfriend. Every client who had even flirted with her asked if she had a boyfriend. He said idly, "Live alone?" Molly knew he was just making conversation but it did not matter. She had hit some sort of point of no return on her self-control program. She swung round in the car seat and glared at him. "Now, listen. I don't date clients," she announced flatly. "And anyway, quite apart from the millionaire issue, I hate cars, I hate computers. I have a full and satisfying social life and my living arrangements are none of your business." George's smile widened. "Thought so." You couldn't hit a man while he was driving, thought Molly wistfully. She sank back in her seat and wished that her galloping pulse was entirely due to justified annoyance. No man should be able to see through her that clearly. And then she thought, No man ever has before. Her pulses braked to normal in simple shock. Still idle, he asked, "What were you doing in Bologna?" "Six months' university," said Molly, too shaken to lie as she normally did. No man has ever sat beside me and made me tingle with longing just by laughing at me, either. "Short course." "No it wasn't. I ran away with a rock band." Well he might as well know. Maybe that will stop him digging. But he did not ask about the band. "Why Bologna?"
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"My grandparents live there. In Italy you go to university where you live." "And you didn't like it?" "Sure. It was cool. A real student city. Lots of clubs, brilliant bars, great music, great bookshops." "And still you ran away?" Without her realizing it, her hands had clenched tight in her neat charcoal lap. She relaxed her fingers carefully. "I fell in love." Chapter Six "You know," said George, after a pause, "I have a theory." Molly struggled back from the horrors of memory and tried to pull herself together. You were supposed to talk to the man at the wheel on a long drive, after all, weren't you? So she tried to sound interested, even enthusiastic. "Oh? What sort of theory?" "That you don't have a problem with millionaires. You have a problem with love." "Oh," said Molly, in quite a different voice. "You think it's only for the young and silly." She was speechless. "Just a hypothesis," drawled her tormentor. "Needs a field trial." She stared straight ahead at the tarmac gleaming in the spring sun. Cars were strung out along the great curve ahead of them, like a many-looped necklace of misshapen pearls. Concentrate on the cars. Don't let him get to you. "Don't even think about it," she said through frozen lips. "I was right. You are jumpy." He sounded intrigued again. "No I'm not. I'm just not discussing my love life with you." "That's all right," said George, with odious kindness. "I prefer to do my own research anyway." Molly dropped her bright orange head and banged it rhythmically against the dashboard. George made concerned noises. "Not feeling so good? Do you want to pull over?" She stopped banging. "Why me?" she asked the gods. "Well, now ?"
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"Don't," she snapped. "What?" Her lips unfroze. Fury does that. "Don't answer. Don't say a thing. Not for the rest of this journey. You are the most irritating man I have ever met and I wish I were anywhere else in the world. But I am a professional and I will stick with this assignment for the next three days. As long as you do not ? speak ?one ? more ? word." George laughed. "You've got it." He was as good as his word. He kept silent all the way to Leeds. And once there, in the television studio, she began to see exactly what kind of Nightmare Client she had on her hands. It was the same everywhere after that. Every television program, every radio station. Always the same. She wrote carefully pitched dialogue. He ignored it. For the phone-ins she prepared typical question-and-answer briefings. She even revised it nightly, based on the day's calls. As far as she could tell he did not even read it. George Hunter did his own thing. Oh, he was good all right. Even under unflattering studio lights he still looked like the god of the underworld. And that lazy, dangerous charm reached straight out across the camera and sank in its fangs. Even Molly, seething, could see that. But eventually, even the people he was fascinating began to listen to what he said. And he was not diplomatic to the callers. He was knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and funny. And very, very rude. Sitting in the box with the director of a local West Country television station on the penultimate day of the trip, Molly dropped her head in her hands. "Please don't let him have said that," she moaned. "Controversy. Good for the ratings," said a production assistant, grinning. "Especially with a tasty article like that." "He's supposed to be getting someone to put his damn car into production. Not starting World War Three." The production assistant listened to her headphones for a moment. "Well, the phones are ringing off the hook. You've got yourself a celebrity in the making there." Molly flinched as if she had burned herself. Just as well that George was not there to see that recoil, she thought. He would have scented a mystery. And developed one of his theories. And road tested it. She said, "I've got more than a celebrity. I've got a major pain in the ass." She meant it. The question was, what was she going to do about it. Chapter Seven Molly could barely contain herself as they came out into the warm spring afternoon. Don't speak in anger. Think about the sun on the daffodils. Keep calm, she told herself.
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"I thought that went real well," said the Nightmare Client cheerfully, striding out. He looked as if he had just conquered the planet. Beside him, Molly set her teeth and counted to 10. He can't be all bad. Think about his qualities. Count them. There were many. Hooded brown eyes that danced at awkward moments. Shoulders that women dream of. Oh, and he was best friends with the boss. Remember that, Molly. Now those brown eyes glanced at her sideways. "You obviously don't agree." She counted to 10 again. It was no good. "No, it didn't go well." Her voice was so controlled it twanged. "It was a disaster." He grinned. She could have danced with fury. Any other man would have been angry. He was paying good money for her services after all. Clients expected their public relations consultants to be ? well, good at public relations. That included buttering up the client, as well as everyone else in sight. Not the bit of PR that Molly was best at, even under ideal circumstances. And these were far from ideal. She had been on the road with Gorgeous George Hunter, inventor, millionaire, and ? as she had learned to her cost ? maverick for three days. She had never exercised so much self-control in her life. "You're a perfectionist," he said soothingly. Soothingly! She was supposed to be the one who was doing the soothing here. And encouraging. And running the whole damned publicity tour. Instead of which George Hunter, for all his sweet Southern manners, had hijacked control somehow. And seemed to be having the time of his life. She held on to her temper. It was a superhuman effort but she did it. I'm a professional. Even if George Hunter isn't. He sighed. "What was wrong this time? I enjoyed myself." Molly stopped dead. The wind was whipping falling cherry blossoms through the 18th-century street. The sky had darkened. Fat drops of rain splashed onto the honey-colored flagstones in front of her. Soon it would be raining hard. She did not care. She was close to her breaking point and she knew it. She fixed her tormentor with a level look. "I know you did." He cocked an eyebrow. It made him look stunningly sexy. "So? Can't PR be fun?" She breathed carefully. "You told the first caller that she needed to get her husband to explain the combustion engine to her," she said in her most neutral voice. "And called the second one a greedy fool."
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He was unrepentant. "I've met the guy. He is a greedy fool." Molly counted some more. "Maybe." She still sounded calm. Amazing! "But it is not good PR to insult the public." He gave her his warm, wonderful smile. It was guaranteed to turn any female under 90 into a cuddly toy. A hungry cuddly toy with "Please Love Me" embroidered on its shirt. Molly had done her time as a cuddly toy, though not, admittedly, George Hunter's. It was a long time ago. She wanted to hit him so hard, her knuckles holding on to her trendy briefcase were white with the effort of keeping it by her side. "That's why I need you with me," said the Nightmare Client soulfully. "To give me these little nudges in the right direction." Anyone trying to nudge George Hunter off his chosen course, thought Molly, would get batted into outer space. She said bitterly, "Need me? You ignore my briefing. Laugh at my ideas. And overturn all my arrangements. How can you possibly say you need me?" Chapter Eight "Of course I need you," said George Hunter calmly. "Why else would I hire you? Culp and Christopher is the most expensive PR agency in London." Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "Also the trendiest. Also the best." Their eyes clashed. His lips twitched. "Quite. I always buy the best." There was vivid proof of that across the heritage town's discreetly hedged car park. Even among the aristocratic Land Rovers and Mercedes, it stood out. George's Ferrari. It was the only one in the place, of course. It was so red it made her eyes hurt. He followed her narrowed eyes. "Only class acts need apply," he said as if he was agreeing with her. He sounded amused. Molly raised her elegant eyebrows. They were plucked within an inch of their life and they were very good for crushing people. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" "Simple truth," he assured her, uncrushed. "When I made my first million I made myself a promise: You only buy the best from now on, George." He paused expectantly. Molly lost it. She could not help it. He had been goading her for three days without a break. "You have not," she said between her teeth, "bought me." He looked startled. Only for a moment, but it was something.
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But he turned the tables on her at once. She should be getting used to it by now. Why was it always a surprise? "Of course not." His brown eyes gleamed. "Just your ? er ? expertise." Somehow, he managed to make it sound slightly grubby. Molly was certain that it was deliberate. But there was not one damn thing she could do about it. The client was always right. At least that's what her boss told her. Her boss, George Hunter's best friend. The sole reason she could not walk away from all this unprovoked aggravation right now. Well, no, not the sole reason. There was her self-respect to be considered, too. Also, her professional reputation. And the sheer difficulty of getting decent PR for a car whose playboy inventor did not take anything seriously, least of all his own campaign. No, she wouldn't walk away. Molly drew herself up to her full height. "Shall we go?" she said coldly. "Fine." George looked almost disappointed. He enjoyed the fights, she knew. Another reason not to walk away. They crossed to the car in silence. That was partly because she had to move at a near-run to keep up. George Hunter had long legs and made no concessions to women in four-inch heels. Molly set her teeth, and did not complain. Pride, of course. But pride was the only thing that had kept her going. The Nightmare Client opened the passenger door and stood back to let her get into his car. She gave him her best professional smile ? the one that that came with Don't-Mess-with-Me warning lights ? and got in. Here we go for the next nightmare drive to the next city, she thought. George ? she called him George in her head; aloud she worked hard at not calling him anything ? will drive at a squillion miles an hour and spend the whole journey talking about saving fossil fuels. And he says women are inconsistent! Stay professional, Molly. Stay professional. Tomorrow you'll be back in London. No more broad shoulders, seductive brown eyes, or pigheaded determination to put a torpedo under your campaign. No more sleepless nights either. Tonight she would say goodbye to George Hunter forever. And breathe again. Chapter Nine George eased himself into the Ferrari beside her. He did not turn on the engine for a moment, though. Molly breathed hard. Her fingernails were scoring deep grooves into the leather of her expensive briefcase with the effort of maintaining a dignified silence. "You know you're cute when you huff through your nose like that," he said reflectively. "Any dragon in your ancestry?" Molly gave up. Sometimes professional was just not an option. She put back her head and screamed. The Nightmare Client grinned. "I like a woman who can let herself go."
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It was deliberate provocation and Molly knew it. She struggled not to whip back a retort in kind. Eventually she said in her crispest voice, "I'll make a note of that for the press pack tomorrow, shall I?" He did not like that, she saw with satisfaction. He did not lose concentration. Over the enforced intimacy of the past three days she had learned that George Hunter never lost concentration. But one eyebrow rose. "Why tell the press?" "Because that's what I do." She was heavily patient. She enjoyed being heavily patient. "About 90 percent of PR is briefing the press, one way or another." "Briefing them on the car," corrected George uneasily. "Not me."She gave him a wolfish smile. "Oh, but you're much more interesting." That would get him nervous, she thought. That would wipe the superior half smile off that handsome face. That would win her a much-needed point in this devilish game of his. She was wrong. There was a pause. Then George said thoughtfully, "You don't think so." And sat back pleasurably waiting for her to blush. Molly ground her teeth. What could she do? If she said no, she didn't think he was interesting, she had made his point for him. If she said yes, she did find him more interesting than his blasted car, she opened the door to heaven knows what. Molly might refuse to acknowledge it just at the moment, but she knew there was a simmering attraction between her and George Hunter. In the past three days he had said nothing that the most modest woman could object to. But she reacted to half the things he said as if they were invitations to bed. So no, she was not going to say aloud that she found him interesting. Which meant another easy win for George Hunter. Again. But she wasn't going to blush either. "Drive," she advised. "We've got places to go. People to see." He sighed. Then set the Ferrari in motion. "I guess you'll tell me the truth one day, chère." She shuddered at the thought. Truth, in Molly's experience, was an unexploded bomb. Especially where sex was concerned. Forget that. You haven't thought about it for years. But they were driving through the gentle Somerset countryside now. Exactly the place where she had found out just what fire truth and sex ignited when they mixed. It had sent her whole life up in flames. Most of the time she managed to put it out of her mind. But it had changed her forever. And she certainly did not want clever, game-playing George Hunter digging into what happened here five years ago.
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So she said, "All right. I think you're a phenomenon. Really." She showed her teeth in a smile that was 100 percent hostility. "Nerds of the world, unite!" Chapter Ten "A nerd?" George asked. He didn't sound offended. He sounded intrigued. Well, he would, wouldn't he? He had probably never been told he was boring before, thought Molly. Not by an employee. Especially not by a woman. Especially not a woman he was driving along with, through lanes frilled with spring leaves and hawthorn blossom, in too many thousands of dollars' worth of expensive bright red sports car. Time for George Hunter to learn a lesson or two. Molly said politely, "Sorry. Should I have made that supernerd?" The handsome mouth tightened. Just a fraction. But she saw it and felt a small triumph. He had been needling her for three days. This was her first hit in retaliation. "Depends on what exactly goes into being a nerd. Sometimes these English expressions lose me." "Then let me explain," said Molly with relish. "A nerd has no time for people. He is in love with his computer." "I?see." It was a slow drawl and just a touch frosty. Not pleased at all, thought Molly. She mentally hugged herself. "And a supernerd?" The drawl stretched like a hammock in the sun. "With a supernerd, the computer is in love with him," she said, triumphant. He winced theatrically. "Yes, you told me you didn't like computers. You weren't joking, were you?" "Too right." "And you did say you were only 23?" he mused. Molly was unmoved. "I've done my time as a nerd. I grew out of it." "You are so hidebound," said George, seriously put out for once. "People need computers. I run a global company and make millions because they need them." "I use them. I just have a life, as well." The bright new leaves met over their heads. They were driving through a tunnel of golden green. Lacy shadows mottled the road ahead. George slowed to concentrate. Maybe that was why he sounded unusually irritable. "I have a life. I'm a citizen of the world." "No, you aren't." Molly was on a roll. "I assure you I am." There was steel in the smooth voice now. "I can make myself comfortable anywhere in the world."
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"You mean you make yourself comfortable anywhere there is an international hotel. All you need is a laptop and blinds you can close against the light." They came out of the lacy shadows onto a wide plain. The car speeded up. "Don't forget the surge suppressor," agreed George mildly. But a muscle was leaping in his cheek and his hands on the steering wheel were rigid. "Don't you think your image of a software manufacturer is out of date? I'm not even going to talk about clichés." Molly stretched pleasurably. "The thing about clichés is they're so true that everyone says them all the time." She had needled him. There was no doubt about it. She put her hands behind her head and whistled. She let herself get carried away for a lovely moment. "Nerds," she said ruminatively, "are an interesting species. Hunched from crouching over computer monitors for 18 hours a day. Indoor pallor. The successful ones ? and you're very successful, aren't you? ? have wild obsessive eyes." There was a pause. She thought, quite suddenly, I've gone too far. He did not say anything. But he swirled the red monster in the driveway of a farm gate and stopped. He turned to her. "Wild obsessive eyes, huh?" They were not wild at all. They were steeply lidded, brown, and warm. Too warm. In the past three days, Molly had seen them laughing. She had seen them melting. She had even promised herself that they would not melt her. She had never seen them as they looked now. Intent. So dark they were almost black. Not a glimmer of humor. No hint of seduction. Just ? close. Very, very close. Too close. She began, "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I mean, you're the client. I ? er ? look, do you want me ?" She was going to say "to apologize" but she didn't get the chance. George Hunter leaned across, took her chin in firm fingers and turned her head toward him. "I'm glad you brought that up," he murmured. And kissed her. Chapter Eleven Oh, help. I should have seen this coming. George's kiss was warm and firm, just as Molly would have expected. Had she thought about it. Which she hadn't. Of course, she hadn't. But there was something unexpected about it, as well. And that was her own reaction.
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Molly di Perretti, queen of the dance floor, late-night party animal, and babe of choice in the dreams of the male half of London's coolest PR agency, had never gasped like a Jane Austen heroine in her life. She did not come over all quivery and breathless because a man laid hands on her. She did not faint when a man kissed her. Molly di Perretti, she told herself sharply, kissed him right back. She kissed him back. She had to, right? Her self-respect demanded it. Maybe even depended on it. So she slid her hand round the back of his neck, where the hair sprang warm as a fox against her fingers, and drew him into her. Let her mouth soften voluptuously. Let her eyes drift shut. Concentrated... And the world exploded. For a moment she couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but ride the unexpected tidal wave that threatened to drown them both. There were too many clothes between them. She scrabbled at his shirt, at her own. She felt dizzy. She knew this was crazy and utterly uncool and she didn't care. Her blood thrummed in her ears, his breath filled her mouth and she was desperate not to fall off that surging, frightening wave. And then he let her go. Molly shot back in her seat, disbelieving. Her eyes flew open. If fainting was out, so was a sensuality high. "Nope," said George Hunter pleasantly. Molly blinked. "What?" "No, I am not interested in Sultry Susan from Sex City." "What?" He turned on the engine and put the car into gear again, quite as if nothing had happened. "If you want to kiss me, fine. Gets my vote every time. But you have to kiss me. Not go into star performance mode, and the hell with the guy on the receiving end." Molly swallowed. She was conscious of a faint ringing in her ears. And her bra was too tight. Bet that never happened to a Jane Austen heroine either. "Is that what I did?" she said, dazed. This is not real. I can't be sitting in a massive sports car, driving down an English country lane, talking about my kissing technique. "Yup. That's what you did." She took a couple of deep breaths. The kiss had left her oddly shaky. She was not going to let George Hunter see that, of course. "Well, no one else has complained." His mouth quirked. "I'm not surprised. As performances go, it's a blast."
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"But not good enough for you?" she challenged him. He did not take his eyes off the road. "I don't want a performance. I want the real thing." Molly snorted. "Oh puh-lease!" He did look at her then. His brown eyes were warm again, and amused. Maybe too warm, too amused. Molly stirred uneasily. She didn't want a man looking at her like that. As if he had made an entertaining discovery that nobody else knew about. "Not a romantic?" he asked. "We're in the 21st century, in case you hadn't noticed. What's romance got to do with anything? Sex is sex and let's thank God for it. I don't need it dressed up." It was his turn to blink. "Dressed up?" She waved a hand. She was pleased to see how steady it was. "Red roses. Champagne. Walking hand in hand and darling, they're playing our tune. All that baloney." "You're a hard woman." He sounded as if he was about to burst out laughing. Molly did not feel like laughing at all. In fact Molly felt as if she had been hit by a meteor and was still reeling. And Molly was going to cling like a limpet to the strategy that had ensured her survival for the past five years. "You'd better believe it," she said grimly. And George Hunter gave her a long slow smile that said he believed ? and knew a challenge when he saw one. Chapter Twelve The final interview of the day went past Molly in a fog. She assumed George did not actually come to blows with anyone. She had her own troubles to worry about. How could he have kissed her like that? Or if he wanted her that much, how had he let her go? Because he did not touch her again the whole afternoon. Above all, why on earth had she not marched away from him at the first town they came to? Molly di Perretti knew her own mind and was good at speaking it. She never took any crap from clients. So ? why? The conundrum engaged her all the way until they turned into a drive guarded by a gothic gatehouse and huge wrought-iron gates. Molly was almost sure she knew those gates. She had hoped never to see them again. She sat bolt upright as the red Ferrari swept up to the country house hotel. Her heart sank all the way up the drive. Not here. Please not here. Please let this not be the hotel I think it is. But of course it was. It was that sort of week.
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Wonder if they'll remember me, too. Or will five years have replaced me by juicier scandals? Blast George Hunter. Why couldn't the man have left the hotel bookings as they were? Why couldn't he have been a nice ordinary client with no theories and no sex appeal? Well, just ordinary human wattage sex appeal, anyway. Luckily, the reception staff did not remember her. Or if they did, they were too well trained to say so. But Molly looked round the oak-paneled entrance hall. Smelled the lavender polish and hothouse flowers. And remembered so vividly that she could hardly breathe. George looked up from signing them in. "Are you all right?" Molly jumped. Back in the present, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was taken aback. Under the flaming orange hair, her face was ashy and she had a hand to her breast. Well, she felt as if her heart was in a pair of nutcrackers. She must have cradled it against the pain, instinctively. She thrust her hand down by her side. "I'm fine." "You don't look fine." That ashy face needed explaining. "Lilies. The smell always makes me feel queasy," she said rapidly. Even truthfully. There had been lilies in the bar that night. But George continued to look at her, frowning. "Don't lie to me. It's more than that." "Another of your theories?" She managed a smile, though she could feel every molecule stretching. "I'm okay, really. Just a bit tired. I'll be better after a rest." "You're 23 and you've been in a car or a studio all day. You can't possibly be tired." Molly rallied. "Don't underestimate your own contribution. I've never had a client that kept the adrenaline pumping the way you do." The moment she said it she thought, Wrong! George smiled. That was all he did. Just smile. And at once she was back in the car. Hotly, she remembered the kiss, her own crazy hunger, the way he let her go as if it meant nothing at all.? "I can't believe I said that," she said in anguish. His smile widened. They had the whole of the dark, flagstone lobby between them but she could feel his hands on her as if they were still writhing in the front seat. She even looked down quickly to check her buttons. George was unrepentant. "No point in not enjoying yourself." "Oh?" she said awfully. "Like I've been doing on this trip, you mean?" His eyes gleamed. "Luxury hotel. Finest car in the world and a millionaire genius to drive it for you. What's not to enjoy?" She said intensely, "Do you know that while you're in the studio, I sit outside bracing myself? Being your PR consultant is a high-anxiety activity."
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He laughed, "That's better." Molly was nearly speechless with rage. "Better?" "It's brought the color back into your cheeks, anyway." He was right. She had forgotten the hurt for a moment. He leaned over and touched the back of his hand to her face. "I never want to see you look like that again," he said gravely. "Not while I'm here to stop it." Chapter Thirteen In her room, Molly sat down shakily. The polished floors sloped alarmingly and there were low beams. She would have to remember that if she padded around in the dark. The four-poster bed had a canopy and curtains in a Tudor rose ivory chintz. It was beautiful. A room for lovers. She hated it. A log fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. It sent sparks of light off a cut glass decanter of sherry that stood on a gleaming oak chest. Molly did not have to unstop it to know it contained sherry. She had done that last time, laughing with Francesco over the old-fashioned drink. She had been happy then. So convinced she was loved. It was the last time. Molly swallowed, hugging her arms round herself. Why, oh why, couldn't George Hunter have stuck with the hotel she had booked? It had five stars, a gym, and a swimming pool. And no memories. It didn't matter whether the hotel staff remembered her or not. She remembered. And George Hunter was waiting for her downstairs with his theories and his nasty sense of humor. And his "I want the real thing." Would she be able to keep up a cool facade under the scrutiny of those acute brown eyes? "This," said Molly aloud, "is going to be a great evening. Not." But she had plenty of experience in keeping up a cool facade in the face of disaster. Hell, she had learned it in this very hotel. She could handle the discreetly luxurious dining room, the elaborate French menu, and the small family of cut glass goblets on the starched white tablecloth. She could even handle George Hunter's probing. She was a cool babe and she knew how to keep life under control. She was doing fine until they retired to a cozy drawing room and the waiter brought coffee. There were two bone china jugs on it. "Soya milk for Ms. di Perretti," said the waiter, indicating the second one. Molly felt as if he had launched a bomb. She held her breath, waiting for it to land. George's eyes narrowed. "Soya milk?" Her lips felt anesthetized. "I'm lactose intolerant." "I didn't know that." He sounded annoyed. And the bomb landed.
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"It's on our computer," said the waiter, pleased with his customer care. George said nothing for a moment. Finished serving, the waiter left. Molly stared into the fire, fighting for calm. She knew George was watching her. She braced herself to resist interrogation. "So you've been here before?" "Yes." "And you didn't think to mention it?" She swallowed something jagged in her throat. "No." His next question startled her; it sounded almost savage. "Who were you with?" "The Flowers of Darkness." "What?" She smiled. Well, she had a go at smiling. "Flowers of Darkness. They were a rock band. Not a very good rock band." He looked stunned. "You were a rock chick?" he sounded incredulous. Molly thought of how she had been five years ago. She had thought she was so sophisticated. But in reality she had been eager, innocent, and much, much too trusting. "Technically only." "Tell me." She flinched. George leaned forward, his eyes brilliant in the firelight. "Tell me everything. I want to know." Chapter Fourteen Molly was not going to tell him everything. Of course she wasn't. She could hardly bear to remember the full horrible story herself. But she would have to tell him something. After three days she knew George Hunter well enough to realize that, at least. She would have to tell him something or he would dig, and needle, and theorize, and speculate until she ended up telling him every last detail, just to get him off her case. She smoothed her tailored gray trousers. Last time she sat here in front of the fire she had been wearing chains and black leather that was too tight for her ample frame. And her heart was on her biker's sleeve. "The Flowers were on a European tour. I was basically a roadie. I ran the traveling office from a laptop." Her smile was fleeting. "I told you I'd done my time as a computer nerd. Well, that was it." George stayed watchful. "Was it rewarding?"
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She shrugged. "Paid peanuts. But it was exciting. I was good at it. And I loved being part of all that happening stuff." And I didn't know they were laughing at me. George said coolly, "Which one were you sleeping with?" Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. It hurt so much, she nearly folded over, rocking to soothe the wound. "Why did I have to be sleeping with any of them?" she countered when she got her breath back. "Weren't you?" "You don't have to believe everything you read about bands." "So it still hurts," he mused, unheeding. "What happened? He dumped you, I suppose?" Molly gave a bark of unamused laughter. "No, as a matter of fact. I quit." "Ah." "I told you that, too. Nobody dumps me. I jump first." She looked at the coffee. She could not remember ever feeling less like having coffee in her life. "I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed." He ignored that. "How old were you?" That was easy. "Eighteen." George said slowly. "Five years ago. That's a long time to hurt like that." It cut like a whip. She said lightly, "A valuable lesson. All part of the growing up process." "Sure. But you're supposed to stop hurting eventually, chère." She had been braced for interrogation, mockery, even contempt. Kindness nearly undid her. She blinked several times, very fast. "I ?" "Still hurt. I can see." His voice was very calm. "What did he do to you, ma petite?" No one had ever called five-foot-ten Molly "petite." She smiled weakly before she pulled herself together. But when she spoke, her voice was hard. "No one did anything to me. I did it all to myself." He stood up, suddenly angry. "Don't play games." She had never heard his accent so strong. She looked up at him. "What?"
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"Tell me nothing, if that is what you want. But don't tell me lies and evasions." Molly was utterly taken aback. Also shaken out of self-pity into simple affront. "I beg your pardon?" He made a disgusted noise. "You want to hide from the past? Fine. That's your choice. But don't ask me to help you do it." "I wouldn't dream of it," said Molly. She sounded like a disapproving dowager. Thank you again, Jane Austen. She stood up, too. "I'll say good-night." George took a step forward. His eyes were very steady. "Don't go." If he moved his hand just a couple of inches he would be touching her. If he touched her, she would tell him everything. If she told him everything, she would die. "I must. I mean I really am wiped. And I want to go over my notes for tomorrow. " Her voice nearly died on her. " I ? I'll see you," she said desperately. She fled. Chapter Fifteen Molly ran up the stairs as if the devil were after her. She was outside the heavy paneled door before she realized she had left her key behind. Damn! She really didn't want to have to face George Hunter again. Maybe she could get a replacement key from the reception desk.? "Looking for this?" said a voice behind her. Cancel the reception desk. Face George, after all. Oh, great! She turned, pinning a smile on so hard her jaw ached. "Thank you. I just realized. Stupid of me." "You were upset." He came up the last few stairs and looked down at her. "You're crying."Molly realized that her eyes were brimming. She brushed the tears away impatiently. "I'll get over it." He unlocked the heavy door for her. It swung open. "Your own turret," said George approvingly. He waved her inside. "Sit by the fire. I'll get you a drink." "Not the sherry," said Molly sharply. She went past the four-poster bed as if it were not there and sank down into the great wing chair by the fire. Someone had thrown more logs on it, she saw. Just as well. The spring night held a chill. He brought her water in a great Jacobean goblet. "Or do you want tea? I know the British think that cures everything. I can call room service."
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Molly shook her head. "Tea won't cure me," she said with a ghost of a smile. "I know what would." The drawl was very pronounced. She gave a little laugh. It broke in the middle. "Not sex. Tried that. Didn't work." George switched out all the lights except the table lamp beside her. Then he sank down onto the aged hearth rug on the other side of the fire. "I was thinking of talking," he said mildly. "Though if you prefer sex, I guess I could be persuaded." Molly jumped. Her eyes flew to his. "Talk," he said gently. And to her astonishment, she did. "I burned my bridges when I left university and ran away with Francesco. I knew my grandparents would never take me back." "You were in love?" "Oh, yes." "But ??" Her smile was wry. "But the band got too successful. I didn't go with the image." "Ah." "Took me a long time to realize it. I ran their schedule, controlled the take-down after every gig, all from my pet computer. Francesco said he couldn't do without me. I believed him." "Sounds reasonable," said George. He drew up one knee and looped an arm round it. It was incredibly sexy. The God of the Underworld reclining, thought Molly, with an unexpected jerk of awareness. She said, "And then I got back one night and the band was in the bar. Talking about me. They were sorry for Francesco." "Sorry for him?" She swallowed. "Back then I was heavy. Thirty pounds overweight at least. Too much junk food, too much time sitting at the computer. Francesco said it didn't matter. But ? it mattered." George said nothing. On an impulse, she stretched out and switched off the table lamp. It was easier when she could not read his expression. In the firelight his eyes were small flames in the shadows.
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"Diego Jonas was the lead. Tall, dark, voice like a pile driver. A chick magnet. Well, he was telling Francesco to go and do his duty. A night on the cold mountain, he called it." She put a hand up to shield her eyes. George drew in a sharp breath. "I nearly ran. But then I thought ? why should I? They could laugh at me all they liked, they still needed me." "Good for you." Molly nodded. "And besides, Francesco loved me the way I was. Or so I thought. So I confronted them." She shuddered at the memory. "One overweight teenager against four young stallions. They were kings of the world. They wiped the floor with me. They thought they were being cool. Francesco told me he just felt sorry for me ? that he could never really love someone like me." Molly sighed heavily, fighting back tears. "Being laughed at ? when you thought you were loved ? I couldn't take it. That was when I ran." "Oh, Molly." His voice was full of compassion. "After five years I should be over it." Her voice broke. She was furious with herself. George was silent for a moment. "Why aren't you?" "Thought I was," she said honestly. "But that final confrontation was here. In the bar downstais." He drew a sharp breath. "Hell." "It doesn't matter." "It matters. You have ghosts to put to rest." He held out his hand. "Will you please just come to bed?" Chapter Sixteen Molly stared at the tall figure in the firelight. She could not make out his expression. But she knew what it would be. Pity! She could not bear it. "Don't be sorry for me," she said fiercely. "I'm not," said George, not backing down. "Yes you are. Why else would you offer to take me to bed?" She was lashing herself into a fury because she went weak at the knees at the very thought. "I hate the whole Southern Gentleman bit. I don't need chivalry." "That's just fine by me." His voice was alive with laughter. Laughter! "I'll stop being a gentleman then." He pulled her out of the wing chair into his arms. Molly staggered and was clamped hard against him. He moved his hips, explicitly, certainly not the gentleman anymore, and she found that it was not just chivalry, after all. He wanted her. Badly. She gasped. As if that was what he had been waiting for, his mouth found hers. Startled, she thought, No. Not like this. Not when he doesn't love me.
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But he filled her up ? his mouth, his scent, the towering body, the eyes that glittered down at her.... Her head fell back and he followed ruthlessly. She held on to him. She had to. Her legs were turning to water under this assault of the senses. But her brain was still working. Just. Her brain said, Don't go soft on me! You don't need love. You can do this! You've done it before often enough! You just close your eyes and think what he does to your nerve endings. A little bit of muscle control and it will be fine. Then George got rid of her jacket and slid his hands under her shirt. And Molly forgot about control of anything. But there was still that bit of her that called sadly from the distance, If only he loved you! He brushed his lips against her ear. He was breathless. Oh, he was laughing, too. But he was still breathless, thought Molly. She hugged it to herself: a small triumph for later when she was cold and alone. "One thing I should warn you," he murmured. She was placing little butterfly kisses along his jaw. "Y-yes?" "I like my women naked." She found his lips. "I can do that." She stepped out of the rest of her clothes without breaking the kiss. George took her hands and held her away from him. Her breasts were golden in the firelight, the nipples proud. He groaned. But he said resolutely, "No, you're not concentrating. It's more than taking your clothes off. You see me. I see you. Completely. That's the deal." Molly's eyes widened. "The real thing," she said slowly. That was what he had said in the car. She moistened her lips. George shut his eyes as if he were in pain. "Don't do that. Not unless you're going to make love to me." She had made love so many times before. But ? the real thing. It was a risk. She had never taken a risk like it. She said, "It will change everything, won't it?" George gave a shaken laugh. "I certainly hope so." She put her hands on his chest, searching his shadowed face. She felt tremulous. She had never been tremulous before. She swallowed. "This is stupid. I want you. But I think I'm a bit afraid." "Good," said George, suddenly fierce. "That makes two of us."
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Chapter Seventeen George did not make love like a Southern Gentleman, she found. He made love like a man inspired. He lavished care on her, a slow voluptuous care that had her writhing for release until she was all sensation. And when she went hurtling over the edge, he held her hard, shaking with her. She collapsed among the pillows, gasping. "Wow." She tried to make a joke but it was shaky. Her body felt tingling and new from her eyebrows down. Especially down. He smoothed the damp orange hair back from her face. "What color is your hair really?" "Turquoise," said Molly flippantly. His eyes gleamed. "I'll make you tell me." A wickedly clever hand found exactly that place that would make her tell him anything he wanted. But Molly had jumped off the precipice once and she had her self-respect to consider. Okay, muscle control was out. But she still had her imagination. And ? perhaps ? love. She raised herself on one elbow, pushing him back among the pillows. He went, laughing. But his eyes were hungry. "Well? "I'm an equal opportunity lover," said Molly, bending to kiss him. Her sinfully slow journey down his body had him groaning aloud. But when she went to straddle him, he stilled her, his hands too strong for her to resist. "No, not yet." He was panting. But, unlike her, he was still in control. "You must?let me?protect you." A gentleman making a last-ditch stand for chivalry. He had come prepared. And he let her put the condom on. Then he let go of that implacable control at last. And they rode a tidal wave, together. She slept in his arms that night, sated. The next morning, of course, was a minefield. Last night she had abandoned herself to sleep, secure in the arms of a man who had flown her to the stars. This morning she woke up with a dancing-eyed stranger. One, moreover, who was as darkly handsome as the Lord of the Underworld. And seemed in great spirits. "My lover," said Molly to herself in the bathroom mirror. It did not sound convincing somehow. She was subdued at breakfast. Monosyllabic in the car. Virtually silent at the interviews.
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All she could think of was how exposed she felt. Oh, he liked his women naked all right. Why on earth had she not thought before she jumped into bed with him? When they were on the road back to London at last, George glanced at her thoughtfully. "Tell me. In this country, if a man comes courting, what is he supposed to do?" Molly was shaken out of her uneasy reverie. "Courting?" "Wooing, if you like." She summoned up a smile from somewhere. "Oh, you're in Southern Gentleman mode again." "Just a man," said George dryly. "A man needing guidance. I mean, you're not easy." "No?" said Molly, dry in her turn. "I thought that's exactly what I was." He shook his head. "Nope. Never met a woman with so many dislikes. No computers. No cars, though mine here is a classic. No red roses, no love songs, no lilies." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "How about chocolate-covered ants?" Molly bit back a real smile. "No chocolate," she said gravely. He sighed elaborately. "See what I mean? Not easy." All desire to smile died. "If you say so." He took his hand off the wheel and took hers firmly. "Don't worry chère. We'll get there." He was not talking about London. They both knew it. And Molly, grappling with a love as shockingly new as it was unwanted, did not believe him. Chapter Eighteen Why Molly di Perretti? George pondered the question. Of course, it had started off as a joke. She was so fierce, so determined that millionaires were a waste of space. He had laughed but it piqued him. He wanted to prove her wrong. Somehow, in proving it, he had got in a lot deeper than he ever intended. A whole lot deeper. Deep enough to drown unless she could be persuaded to rescue him. That was not going to be easy. He knew it. George had always liked women. Especially straightforward women. No twists and turns in their minds, no chips on their shoulders. He would have laughed if anyone had told him that he would fall hopelessly for a prickly beanpole with luminous hair out of a dye package, a mind like a corkscrew, and a bad attitude. And yet... And yet...
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Without her clothes she was not such a beanpole, after all. And without her clothes, tumbled among the Jacobean splendors of a four-poster bed, he had shaken her out of her bad attitude, as well. And in that moment he had lost his heart. George stopped dead in the middle of his luxury London pied à terre and ran a finger round his suddenly tightened collar. Not just his heart, he thought ruefully. So what was he going to do now? She had made him drive her back to the office, not her flat. Oh, he could find out her address from Jay easily enough. But it seemed like cheating. If she didn't give it to him, it wouldn't be the same. And she had resisted his every attempt to see her since. Not that he had made that many. He had had his holiday. Now there was Orun Electronics to run. He had offices all over the world, a research center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and a factory in California. Eight thousand people depended on him keeping on trucking. But every chance he got, he hopped back to London and tried again. She was cordial, delighted to talk to him, excited about the results of the campaign, passed on nibbles from car manufacturers interested in his design. She never let him take the conversation anywhere personal. And she would never meet him, only talked to him on the phone. "You're a difficult woman," he had said to her on the phone today, exasperated. "It's made me an award winner," she retorted, her voice lilting. At last he made up his mind. He wanted Molly. But to get her for good, he needed help. He called Jay Christopher. But Jay couldn't meet him for a drink; he had another engagement. "Molly di Perretti won a Cameo. That's a PR Oscar. I'm taking everyone out to celebrate." George had made his fortune by recognizing opportunities and grabbing them with both hands. "Great. I'll come, too." "It's an in-house bash," Jay had said warningly. "No celebrities, just us PR folk." George snorted. "I am a celeb, thanks to Molly." Jay laughed. "I guess you are, at that. Molly did a great job on you, didn't she?" "The greatest," said George with feeling. "Jay, I've got to see her." Jay was no fool. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to ask her out?" "Done that." George was rueful. "Got the T-shirt. And the scars under it." Jay was silent for a minute. Then he said abruptly, "Hell, why not? It's my party. I can bring a friend if I want." When George put the phone down his smile faded. This was one of the most important things he had done in his life. He was going to have to get it right. She had said she wanted him. Now he needed to turn "want" into "love." Could he do it? Chapter Nineteen
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The door to the stylish ladies' room at Culp and Christopher banged back. Molly carried on drawing a careful outline around her lips. They were a lot more vulnerable than they had been a month ago. "Jay's bringing Gorgeous George to the party tonight," announced Abby. Caught unawares, Molly drove the red line up toward her nose. "You do fancy him," crowed Abby. "No I don't." But suddenly all Molly could see was firelight on naked skin. George, his eyes hungry, her hair on his pillow. Shadows... Abby grinned. They were very good friends. She patted Molly on the arm. "Enjoy," she said. Molly came out of her reverie with a jerk. She looked at her watch. If she was going to have to face George, then there were things she had to do. *** The Pacific Grill was definitely the place in London's West End to be seen at the moment. It had pyramidhigh ceilings, vivid murals, and the meanest margaritas in the city. And the coolest clientele. And the coolest of all was Molly di Perretti. She had taken the afternoon to change her hair from tangerine to turquoise. To that she had added turquoise nails with silver lightning zigzags and Nefertiti eye makeup. George's heart sank the moment he saw her. If she had a spontaneous reaction over the course of the evening, he thought, the Egyptian face paint would hide it completely. He wondered if that was why she had done it. He commandeered two salt-encrusted glasses and strolled over to her. "Hi, gorgeous. Lost your sarcophagus?" The girls with her looked taken aback. But Molly was unmoved. "I'm a prime babe. I always paint up when I go on the town," she told him coolly. "If you were sophisticated you'd know that people expect it." Sam and Abby exchanged startled glances. George raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Isn't the sphinx look dated?" Female solidarity swung into action. Abby said hurriedly, "It's coming back." "Yes, it is. At Molly's the swinging-from-the-rafters end of the business, anyway." That was Sam. "It's all the rage with pop divas and rock philosophers."
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George's eyes danced. "Pop divas and rock philosophers, eh?" He gave Molly that slow smile that turned her bones to water and her brain to mush. "No wonder you didn't want me," he said softly. Blond, kind Sam blinked. "Excuse me?" "As a client," George said smoothly. "As a client." But one look at Molly's face, even under the Egyptian queen makeup, told them that was not what he meant at all. Sam took hold of Abby's wrist and pulled her out of the way. George walked Molly backward until she hit the waves painted on the wall. "Wow," she said, her back against a polished brass rail that ran round the faux deck of the bar. "Very smooth." She sounded breathless and not entirely pleased. "Thank you," said George. He handed her the margarita. She took it, but she said, "It wasn't a compliment." He smiled at her, the hooded eyes alive with laugher. And something else. What was it? "Yes it was." Her chin came up. "Wrong." He sighed. "Why do you dislike me so much?" For once, he had lost the drawl. "I don't." "Yes, you do. You take a chunk out of the fleshy bit of my leg every chance you get. The others don't." "The others," said Molly, goaded, "don't know that you have legs. They just see a hundred million dollars wrapped up in a dinner jacket, driving a Ferrari." "And what do you see?" She hesitated. "We were lovers." George reminded her. "You must have seen something." She avoided his eyes. "High octane energy," said Molly coolly. "Minimal slush content." But her mouth gave her away. That voluptuous, vulnerable mouth. George's body hardened in unequivocal response. He gave a ragged laugh. "You know, I don't know what you do to your other men, but this is plying hell with my blood pressure." She glowered. "I don't do anything to other men." "I'm glad to hear it," said George coolly. "Though it needs looking into."
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"Why?" "You're too young to give up sex." Molly saw him through a red mist of rage. "I have not given up sex," she yelled. Even in the Pacific Bar heads turned. George smiled. "Good." He took her margarita glass away. "Let's go discuss this." Chapter Twenty He took her to the new pied à terre. That was what he had bought it for, after all. Molly raged at him all the way in the taxi. But she did not try to walk away. That had to be a good sign, thought George. Now if he could only find a way to make her see how he loved her, and how she loved him, he could ask her to marry him and the fun could begin. Maybe in 20 years he'd convince her, he thought, watching her prowl through the pristine rooms. She picked up a little prancing horse sculpture. "More Ferrari memorabilia?" She did not try to disguise her contempt. George braced himself. Here comes the big one, he thought. He said quietly, "The horse was the emblem of a First World War pilot who Ferrari admired. He was his hero. Good manufacturers put our heart and soul into what we do." Molly stared. He took her hands. "I love that car because it's a brilliant piece of design." She rallied but it was an effort. "And about three people in the world can afford them." "So? Does that mean they shouldn't exist? That's very puritanical of you." His voice fell to a caressing murmur. "You don't have the mouth for a puritan, either." He watched her eyes darken. Excitement took hold of his gut. Here goes, then. He put a hand in his pocket and brought out a small ring box. "You don't like bouquets. You can't eat chocolate. It limits a man. I couldn't think of anything else." Molly looked stunned. She took it in those crazy lightning-painted fingernails as if she had never seen a ring box before. She did not say anything. George despaired then. He said, "Marry me," though he knew it was hopeless. She looked up at him. And then? And then? She reached up, wove her fingers into the turquoise hair and ? took it off.
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George stared. She shook out her hair. It was a soft tabby brown. Free, it flowed like silk, wafting the scent of lavender through the still air. She met his eyes, half defiant, half shy. "It's my natural color. I had it dyed back this afternoon. When I knew you were coming tonight." He could not believe it. "For me?" She swallowed, painfully unsure but bravely trying to tease him. "You said you like your women naked. This is as naked as I get." He was shaken to the heart. Beyond strategy. Beyond anything but the truth. "Do you love me?" Molly flinched. He almost said that it didn't matter. That wanting was enough. But he knew it wasn't. He held his breath. She put up a hand to her scented hair, looking vulnerable. "Yes. I think so." He took the box and opened it. The ring was a ruby, red as flame, all fire and mystery. No boring, traditional diamonds for his hip chick. She stared at it for a long moment in silence. George took it out of the box and took her hand. "You have to be sure." But he was already smiling. That hair said it all. He slid the ring on her finger. "Marry me, Molly di Perretti, prime babe and hip chick. This millionaire may not count. But he needs you." She looked down at the ring for a moment, then up into his eyes. She was torn between tears and laughter. "Not just a millionaire," she teased softly, lovingly. "My hero."
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MIDSUMMER MASQUE by Deborah Hale Lord Auberon Westborne has always loved Sylvie Somerville. But the disparity in their age and experience led him to keep his feelings to himself. So for years, he's waited, been biding his time until the lady was mature enough to be his bride. Will a masked ball held in honor of his cousin's engagement be the romantic opportunity West has been waiting for — or has he already lost Sylvie's heart to another lover? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE Northamptonshire, England, 1818 He had waited so long for her. Lord Auberon Westborne gazed across his traveling carriage at Miss Sylvie Somerville, presently in animated conversation with her lady's maid. When she laughed, tendrils of dark hair that peeped from beneath her bonnet danced. Had he waited too long? Lord Westborne feared so. Ever since he could remember, an eventual match between the two of them had been an unspoken certainty on the part of their families. And ever since she had made an effort to ease the social torture of a party for him six years ago, his heart had been hers. She'd been so young then. A mere girl of seventeen, while he had been in his twenties and years older still in experience and responsibility. Knowing she thought of him only as a dear, old friend or courtesy elder brother, he had scrupulously avoided revealing the intensity of his feelings, for fear of frightening her away. She would be his one day and he had been content to wait, anticipating. Sylvie looked up suddenly and caught him watching her. Two bewitching dimples blossomed on either side of her equally bewitching lips. "My dear West, you look positively grim! I hope you have not got a toothache, poor fellow. I would hate to have this lovely visit with your cousin spoiled for you." She did not blush when she spoke, which troubled Lord Westborne. A young lady should blush if she discovered a man staring at her with the transparent longing he feared his face must betray. At least, she should if she had the slightest romantic interest in the fellow. "My teeth are quite sound, thank you." He wasn't in his dotage yet. Though perhaps he might as well be as far as she was concerned. He admitted a half-truth to explain his solemn countenance. "I was only thinking about this sudden engagement of Daventry's and wondering what it all means." They were on their way to a house party at Helmhurst, the country estate of Lord Westborne's cousin, Lucius Daventry, to celebrate the baron's betrothal. The culmination of the gathering was to be a splendid masquerade ball. West had accepted the invitation eagerly, hoping the romantic atmosphere might make Sylvie more receptive to the notion of him as a lover and a husband. When she had returned to England recently after a year abroad, West had fallen in love all over again, for she had matured into the clever, vivacious, beautiful woman he'd always known she would. Exultant that his time had come at last, he'd been crushed to discover she had no wish to encourage his romantic attentions. Nor ever to wed him. "Why, it means Lord Daventry has met a special lady and fallen in love with her, I hope." Sylvie's gaze strayed out the carriage window to drink in the lush hedgerows of England's heartland. The wistful look on
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her delicate features made West ache to hold her. "I am so happy for him, poor man, after what happened to him during the war, and how cruel everyone has been since." She glanced back at West again, an unexpected glint of steel in her dreamy blue eyes. "No one who called him Lord Lucifer in my hearing was ever fool enough to do it a second time!" West laughed, in spite of his burdened heart. That was one of the things he'd always loved about Sylvie — her spirit, her loyalty and her kind heart. Though it was on account of those latter admirable qualities that he dared not show her the true depth of his feelings. If she knew of his dogged devotion, she would do anything to keep from hurting him. Even if that meant wedding him against her inclination. He cared for her happiness far too much to let that happen. But perhaps the exposure to his cousin's happy betrothal would make her reconsider, and give him the smile or word of encouragement he had craved for so long. *** Lord Westborne had the kindest eyes, and the saddest, too. Sylvie had always thought so. Even as a young girl she had sought to draw him out, to make him laugh and enjoy himself a little. Though otherwise the very best of men, he had always been too shy and too solemn. "I wonder how Lord Daventry came to meet this Miss Lacewood?" she mused. "I heard he never goes anywhere, and then only in the dead of night." She remembered Lucius Daventry as he had been before Waterloo. "The Handsomest Beau in Britain" everyone had called him then. Sylvie had heartily agreed, though she'd always thought Lord Westborne's face had more character. She hoped her own face would not betray any aversion when she met the baron again and saw the black mask with which he concealed his war wounds. The carriage turned off the main road just then onto a long lane that led to a magnificent old house. Lord Westborne shrugged. "From what I can gather, the young lady is a neighbor of theirs. I believe she took a kind interest in the earl while Lucius was off to war. I would not put it past the old fellow to have had a hand in matchmaking for the two of them." "His fiancée is someone Lord Daventry has known all his life, you mean?" The information surprised Sylvie. "Then perhaps it is not a love match after all." No one could fall in love with a person they had known all their lives. She was certain of that. For some time now, she had been waiting and expecting to fall in love — the kind of love she had heard extolled in poem and play, song and story. She'd hoped that during her year abroad she might meet someone special to whom she could surrender her heart. There had been men who'd made that organ flutter for an hour or two, but it had not taken them long to fall short of her ideal. Though West might think her a frivolous creature, she wanted more in a husband than good looks and a flattering tongue. She knew her family planned for her to marry Lord Westborne, but that was out of the question. Wealthy, well bred, handsome and kind, he had been a fixture in her life for as long as she could recall. How could one fall in love with a fixture? "I only hope Daventry's fiancée is not after his fortune," West muttered. He was so devoted to his family, what little he had. That was one of the things Sylvie liked best about him. Though she feared he might let his strong sense of duty spoil his own chance to fall in love. He had never shown the least interest in her as a woman, yet he was vastly attentive in a brotherly fashion. If she permitted it, she feared he would drift into marriage with her to fulfill a family obligation. Not an unpleasant one, perhaps, but not the kind of romantic rapture she wished for him…and for herself.
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Perhaps if his cousin's engagement were a love match, West would see that he must not allow himself to settle for less. If, on the other hand, Lord Daventry and Miss Lacewood had contracted an alliance on some other basis, it might serve as a warning for what West should avoid. For her part, Sylvie could not help hoping true love might find her at Lord Daventry's midsummer masque! CHAPTER TWO A foolish sense of satisfaction and hope budded inside Lord Auberon Westborne as he helped Sylvie Somerville out of his carriage. Bringing her to Helmhurst to help celebrate his cousin's engagement made him feel as if she belonged to him, however briefly. The Earl of Welland stood near the magnificent pillared entrance to the house, greeting his guests. The old fellow looked as frail as ever, but happier than West had seen him since his grandson had returned disfigured after the Battle of Waterloo. Beside the earl stood a lovely young woman with golden hair and a shy smile. "Westborne, my dear boy!" The earl glanced from West to Sylvie with the twinkling eyes of an unrepentant matchmaker. "I am delighted you've brought such a lovely companion with you to grace our celebrations. I want this gloomy old place steeped to the eaves in the laughter and romance of young folk for a few days. It will be the perfect tonic for me." West dearly hoped he would be able to oblige the old fellow. He bowed to the earl and to the young lady he assumed must be his cousin's fiancée. "Thank you for the invitation, sir. May I present a dear friend of the family, Miss Sylvie Somerville?" "What — not Bram Somerville's little girl? Why it seems just yesterday we were toasting your christening. Welcome, my dear!" The earl turned to the young woman beside him. "This is a dear friend of my family, and soon to be a member of it, Miss Angela Lacewood." The gentlemen bowed over the ladies' hands. West and Sylvie both congratulated Miss Lacewood on her engagement to Lord Daventry and everyone praised the fine weather. "Is Lucius around, by any chance?" asked West. "I'd like to congratulate him on his good fortune and good sense in securing such a lovely bride." "You'll see him at dinner," said the earl with no further explanation. "Until then, why don't you both settle in and make yourselves at home. I hope you brought masks and costumes for the ball." They assured him that, indeed, they had. West could scarcely wait for a glimpse of Sylvie as Helen of Troy. He'd have launched a thousand ships for her, if he'd thought it would do him any good. "So what do you think of Miss Lacewood?" Sylvie whispered once they were out of earshot. "Is she in love with your cousin, do you suppose?" "That is hardly the sort of thing one can tell from a brief meeting." Or even a long acquaintance. Otherwise Sylvie would have realized ages ago how much he cared for her. Perhaps she didn't want to see it. "I suppose not." Sylvie did not appear convinced. "She is very lovely, though. Whatever may have induced her to accept Lord Daventry, I do not believe it was his fortune." "My mind is at rest on that score as well," West agreed. "What shall we do to amuse ourselves until dinner? Would you care to take a stroll through the gardens? Helmhurst has very fine ones."
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"We've been cooped up in your carriage together all the way from home." An anxious look tightened Sylvie's smile. Did she think a walk in the gardens might give him unwanted encouragement? "Why not mingle with some of the other guests? The earl told me they're set up for pall-mall and tennis." "Pall-mall it is." West tried not to let his disappointment show. After all, any time spent in Sylvie's company was a rare boon, even if he had to share her attention. *** It had been a most enjoyable afternoon, Sylvie decided as she dressed for dinner. She and West had won their match against Viscount Allingham and his sister. West had been vastly comical, larking about with his mallet and pretending to get the wickets mixed up. It was good to see the dear fellow relaxing and enjoying himself. Once or twice, her gaze had met Viscount Allingham's as they'd chuckled over Lord Westborne's antics, and she had felt a blush rise to her cheeks. The viscount was very handsome and charming. His sister might do quite well for West…except that she had a rather tart tongue. Sylvie did not want to see her dear friend saddled with a scold for a wife. She was delighted to find herself seated between West and the viscount at dinner. It was a rather strange meal, though. "Why so few candles?" she whispered to West as the soup was being served. "It's Lucius." West nodded toward the foot of the table where his cousin sat. "The earl tells me his injured eye is painfully sensitive to bright light." "How awful for him." Hard as she tried, Sylvie could not keep her sympathy untainted by a tiny qualm of fear. Lord Daventry's black mask did give him a rather diabolical appearance. "I wonder how poor Miss Lacewood will manage, wed to a man who must live his life in darkness?" She should have kept her voice down. A striking redhead sitting on West's right, leaned toward them and purred with gleeful malice, "Don't you think that might be one of the attractions of the match for her? Imagine a wealthy husband one hardly ever needs to keep company with!" West made some sort of vague comment about doubting Lord Daventry's fiancée would agree, while Sylvie struggled to rein in her indignation. If she hadn't thought it would make a dreadful scene, she'd have been tempted to dump the contents of her soup bowl over the little minx! Sylvie knew the creature, if only by reputation. Lady Esmé Talbot had jilted two men already, and only her father's wealth and title had kept her from being shunned by the ton. Fearing Lady Esmé might have designs on West, Sylvie took care to keep him so engaged in conversation with her that he scarcely had a moment to glance at his right-hand neighbor. If that meant she had no time to chat with Viscount Allingham, it couldn't be helped. A lady must be wil ling to make some sacrifices for the man she…liked a great deal. Sylvie felt quite rewarded when, near the end of the meal, the viscount stole an opportunity to whisper an intriguing invitation. *** By the end of dinner, West felt as if he had drunk too much of the earl's fine wine. Sylvie's sudden exclusive interest set him giddy with hope. Why, she'd hardly even glanced at that coxcomb Allingham, who'd been taking far too much interest in her to suit West.
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Perhaps his foolishness during their game that afternoon had made her see he wasn't as stuffy and backward as she might have thought. Or perhaps there was a little magic in the air. West didn't care what was behind it, as long as it worked. When the gentlemen retired to the earl's library, West excused himself as soon as he could. He tipped the earl's ancient valet a large sum for information about Miss Somerville's whereabouts, then raced to the gardens in search of her. Just as he was rounding one of the hedges, he heard her cry, "So you did come, after all!" West opened his mouth to reply. Before he could speak, another man's voice answered the very words he'd meant to say. "My apologies, dear lady. I came as soon as I could." "You're here now," said Sylvie. "That's what matters." As West watched from behind the hedge, his hope shattered and ground into the dust, the woman he loved took Allingham's arm and they began a slow stroll around the garden. CHAPTER THREE He should not listen, Lord Westborne told himself as he stood behind a laurel hedge while his beloved Sylvie flirted with Viscount Allingham on the other side. Such conduct was beneath a gentleman. Nor did he want to hear what they might say. His heart pained him quite enough already. But when he tried to move, his legs would not cooperate. "What kept you?" Sylvie asked Allingham in a tone of sweet mock-petulance. "I was beginning to think you might not come after all." "If you believe I'd prefer standing around a stuffy library drinking port to strolling with you under the stars, you are not nearly as clever a woman as I took you for, Miss Somerville." She gave a silvery little laugh. The kind West had congratulated himself on prompting that afternoon. Was that rascal, Allingham, kissing her hand or taking some other minor liberty? Where Sylvie was concerned, there were no minor liberties. "You flatter me, sir," she said. "I am not nearly as accomplished as your sister." Now Allingham laughed. "There's a difference between cleverness and being a know-it-all little bluestocking. It was most unkind of you not to rescue me from one of Jane's tiresome lectures during dinner. You were paying me so little heed, I was afraid I'd done something to offend you." "Never!" insisted Sylvie. "I had to keep Lord Westborne talking so Lady Esmé wouldn't get her claws into him. I want the dear fellow to find a nice wife, not take up with some dreadful little minx who'll break his heart." West clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. There was only one wife he wanted. A hundred Lady Esmés could not have tempted him. Nor hurt him more cruelly, with so little intention. Gradually, Sylvie and the viscount sauntered almost out of earshot. West could hear only the muted cadence of their conversation, frequently punctuated by Sylvie's laughter. He tried to steal away so he would not be discovered and humiliated. His legs continued to defy his will. He was still rooted to the same spot when Sylvie and Allingham came closer again. "In that case, may I have the honor of a dance at the ball?" the viscount asked.
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"More than one if you wish," replied Sylvie. "So you have no trouble finding me, I shall be costumed as Helen of Troy." "How very apt." The caressing tone of Allingham's voice made West yearn to vault over the hedge and throttle him. "Not that you need to have told me. I would have picked you out of the throng no matter what costume or mask you wore." "I dare not make such a boast, sir," said Sylvie. "So you had better tell me what you will be wearing. Otherwise, I might accept an invitation from the wrong gentleman." "You must accept no one but Robin Hood, fair Helen. But be warned, he is a scoundrel who may try to steal a kiss." "Be warned, Lord Allingham." Sylvie's voice had a teasing, almost seductive note that West would have given anything to hear addressed to him. "He may not need to steal it." Once again, they wandered away. Farther this time, for West could no longer hear them at all. His rebellious legs finally decided to operate again. He managed to stagger into the house and up to his room, where he hurled himself facedown on the bed. How he wished he were a child again so he could summon the tears that might have eased his parched h art. *** Sylvie was too keyed-up to sleep. After returning from her starlight stroll in the garden with Viscount Allingham, she had gone straight to bed. After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, she had concluded it was useless to keep lying there. This strange unease that kept her awake — could it be love? She asked herself that question as she rose, lit a candle then donned her dressing gown. If it was, she wondered what all the fuss in books and ballads was about. Perhaps she hadn't given it a proper chance to flourish, though. All the while she'd been walking with the viscount, part of her mind had been wondering if West was with the other gentlemen in the library or whether he might be strolling elsewhere on the grounds with a young lady on his arm. She would have heartily approved, provided it was not Lady Esmé…or Jane Allingham…or that toplofty Miss Whiteside…or… Might there be a scullery maid still awake in the kitchen who could warm her a cup of milk? Sylvie hated to think of disturbing anyone. Perhaps she could creep down to the earl's library and borrow a book to read. Something nice and tiresome that would put her to sleep after a few pages. Easing the guest room door open, she padded down the corridor, her bare feet making scarcely a sound on the thick carpet. As she rounded the corner that led to the west wing of the house, she collided with someone hurrying in the opposite direction. Large, powerful hands closed around her arms to keep her from falling. Fumbling her candle, she barely managed to stifle a scream. "West?" she asked in a loud whisper, holding the candle higher. "Is that you? What are you doing up at this hour?" The moment the words left her lips, she wished she could recall them. Was it not obvious what the man must be doing — prowling around at a country-house party in the middle of the night?
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He looked it, too. His warm brown hair was disheveled, his neck linen was gone and his loose white shirt hung open, exposing a deep wedge of bare chest. Had Lord Westborne been dallying with one of the ladies? The notion took Sylvie's breath away. "I might ask you the same question." West's voice had a harsh huskiness she'd never heard before. If she hadn't known him so long and so well, it might have alarmed her. "Where are you going at this hour?" "To get a book from the library, if you must know." Considering what he might be up to, he had no business quizzing her in that gruff tone. "I'm having a devil of a time getting to sleep." Where did he think she was bound? Her indignation evaporated when she looked into his eyes. The green in them seemed to blaze with verdant fury, while the brown ached with anguish too deep for words. "Is something wrong?" She tried to reach out to him, only to realize he was still holding tight to her arms. The candle flame between them danced wildly. If they weren't careful, one of them might get badly burned. "You can let go of me now," she whispered, though her knees felt weak all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the fright from bumping into him in the dark. He glanced down with a puzzled look, as if his hands were acting on their own, contrary to his will. "F-forgive me. I didn't mean to —" What could have happened to distress him so? "Can I help, West? Whatever is the matter, I hope you know you can always confide in me." He threw his head back, shaking with silent, frenzied laughter. The next thing Sylvie knew, he pushed past her and fled down the corridor. But not before the light of her candle glinted off a hint of mist in his haunted eyes. CHAPTER FOUR What had he done? Lord Westborne blundered down the darkened corridor with Sylvie's parting words echoing in his ears. "Whatever is the matter, I hope you know you can always confide in me." Heaven help him, she was the last person in whom he could ever confide. For she was both his problem and the impossible solution to it. How could he stay for the ball to celebrate his cousin's engagement when it was certain to mean watching Viscount Allingham make a conquest of the woman West loved? He'd sooner be hanged. An air of brooding silence hung over the sleeping house. West had to get outside where he could breathe and where the night air might cool his fever of self-reproach. What must Sylvie think of him after the way he'd acted? Had he angered her? Frightened her? Repelled her with his raw emotions the way she might have cowered from the sight of a gaping, gushing wound? Whatever her reaction, he had probably driven her straight into his rival's arms. He was wandering on the south lawn, drowning in regrets, when a familiar masculine voice reached out of the darkness. "Who's there?" "Lucius?" West stopped. "Is that you?" "Oh, West." His cousin sounded relieved. "I've hardly had a chance for a word with you. It was good of you to come. I hope you and Miss Somerville are enjoying yourselves."
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West tried to mouth a polite falsehood, but he could not. "Ah," said Lucius in a knowing tone. "Anything I can do?" If he didn't tell someone, he might explode, as he had very nearly done with Sylvie. "Care to give a fellow a little advice in matters of the heart?" Lucius gave a soft, raspy chuckle. West could imagine his cousin's dark brow raised. "I am hardly an expert on the subject." "You must know something, though, securing such a lovely fiancée." In spite of his marred looks and his suspect reputation. "What's the trouble then?" asked Lucius. "I won't pretend I have any wisdom to offer. Now and then it just does a man good to get it all out. Like a thorough purging." Something about the confessional atmosphere of the night's warm darkness coaxed West to speak. "It's Miss Somerville, as I expect you've guessed." "She appeared very attentive to you at dinner." Only to keep me from talking to the Talbot chit." "Still, isn't that encouraging?" West shook his head, then remembered Lucius couldn't see him. "You don't understand." He only meant to offer a few words of explanation, but everything came spewing out. West could no more have stopped it than he could have paused in the middle of being violently ill. His cousin had been right about one thing, though. Once it was no longer all inside, eating away at him, he felt a good deal better. After a moment's thoughtful silence, Lucius asked, "Have you told any of this to Miss Somerville?" "Have you not heeded a word I've said?" West cried. "Of course I haven't told her. Have you told Miss Lacewood how you feel about her?" "We aren't talking about me, though I understand what you mean. I don't pretend it will be easy. Sometimes the more a man cares for a woman, the harder it is for him to woo her." "I thought you had no wisdom to impart, Lucius." "Promise me something?" "What?" "If an opportunity arises for you to woo Miss Somerville, you'll seize it." Precious little fear of that! "I will. Thank you, Lucius. I hope you and Miss Lacewood will be very happy together." Lucius did not answer. But on the mild night air, West thought he heard a faint sigh. Was there more to his cousin's betrothal than met the eye? West wondered. Or perhaps…less? ***
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Sylvie sighed. Then she yawned. She would need a good nap this afternoon or she'd never be able to stay awake for the ball. Poor West looked like he could use a rest, too. She told him as much at breakfast. He treated her to a withering look over the brim of his coffee cup. "If you mean I look a wreck, go ahead and say it." Sylvie swept a glance around at the few other guests who had gathered in Helmhurst's smaller dining room. "I didn't mean any such thing and you know it." She did not want to quarrel with him, but fatigue and bewilderment had frayed her temper. Last night she had glimpsed a side of Auberon Westborne she'd never guessed. It had stirred something in her that she was reluctant to examine too closely. Something that her pleasant flirtation with Viscount Allingham had not roused in the least. "Is everything all right?" She kept her voice low to avoid drawing too much attention. "I could see you weren't yourself last night." "I am always myself, Sylvie." His tone stung her. "Though perhaps not always the man you like to think I am." "Please." She pressed her fingers to her temple. "It's too early in the morning for talking in riddles." West rose abruptly. "Then perhaps you should go find Allingham. His manner of talk seems to suit you better than mine. And you needn't feel you have to hover around to protect me from some predatory vixen. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself." He stalked off, leaving the other guests staring and Sylvie as shocked as if he'd hurled the tea urn at her. What had come over West? Whatever did he mean about not being the man she thought he was? As her weary mind absorbed his words about Viscount Allingham and predatory vixens, she grew more and more distressed. West must have overheard her talking with the viscount last evening. Was it possible Lord Westborne had deeper feelings for her than she'd ever realized? And if she had been mistaken about that, was it possible she'd been mistaken in her own feelings as well? *** "This isn't the mask and costume I brought!" West stared at the garments laid out on his bed. He had planned to go as King Arthur. This looked like… West's valet shook his head, as if to say it was none of his doing. "The earl's man brought it around, sir. Said it was compliments of Lord Daventry." Suddenly it all made sense. "I suppose he took my gear away with him?" "Should I not have given it to him, sir? He said it was orders from the baron. I thought you must know." "Never mind, Charters. I'll make do." Under his breath West muttered, "Damn you, Lucius!" Seize his chance to woo Sylvie, indeed. There lay his chance, right down to the quiver full of arrows, which he might use like Cupid, to pierce Miss Somerville's indifferent heart. Did he dare try?
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Apart from encasing his troublesome emotions in a stout shell of reason and responsibility, he had little experience with deception and even less taste for it. Was any woman worth stooping to such depths for? He had firmly decided not — made up his mind he wouldn't attend the ball. Who would miss him, after all? Then, from out in the corridor, he heard Sylvie's laughter chime. The sound left him dizzy and breathless. Did he not owe it to himself, and perhaps to her, to try? If she discovered his deception, she might hate him, but West preferred that to the prospect of having her wed him out of pity. "Well, what are we waiting for, Charters? I have a masquerade to attend." And a fair damsel to win. CHAPTER FIVE If ever there had been a night meant for lovers, this one was! Dressed as Helen of Troy in a flowing Greek chiton, Sylvie Somerville watched with a smile on her lips and a gentle mist in her eyes when Lord Daventry and his fiancée made their entrance at the masquerade ball celebrating their engagement. When Sylvie and Lord Westborne had arrived the previous day, she'd wondered if this match between the scarred war veteran and his beautiful neighbor could possibly be based on love. Watching the way Miss Lacewood clung to Lord Daventry's arm, and his visible pride in her, all Sylvie's doubts had been banished. Apparently it was possible for two people who had known each other a long time to fall in love. Until yesterday, Sylvie had believed it quite out of the question. Now she gazed around the darkening south lawn, where the ball was being held, and savored the atmosphere of romantic possibility. Music wafted on the warm evening air from a small but skillful orchestra. Guests in colorful costumes made intricate shifting patterns on the tiled terrace that served as a dance floor. Tiny tin lanterns cast twinkling light from the branches of the trees that surrounded the lawn, mirroring the stars that were beginning to appear in the darkening sky above. A masculine voice with a mellow, musical cadence wrapped around her from behind, shimmering with admiration. "Helen, 'fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!'" A delicious blush suffused her cheeks and she spun about to face…Robin Hood? For an instant, she had thought the voice belonged to someone other than Viscount Allingham. But, of course, it couldn't. Fortunately her mask helped obscure any flicker of disappointment that might have crossed her face. What was there to be disappointed about, after all? She had agreed to meet the viscount here tonight and spend the evening with him. "Why, Robin Hood, you are curiously eloquent for an outlaw." Hard as she tried to recapture the bubbly banter of the previous evening, it eluded her. "I hope you do not mean to steal from me." She twirled around, making the soft folds of bleached muslin billow around her. "As you can see, I have little worth taking." "Quite the contrary, my dear." He held out his arm to her. "You have riches beyond price. To gaze on your beauty, to hear your laughter, to bask in your smile — all are treasures of the highest value." His voice rang with a sweet note of sincerity that Sylvie found difficult to resist. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "But you need not filch any of those, Sir Robin. They are yours to have when you will."
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"Perhaps, but there are other prizes of even rarer value." He nodded toward the terrace and began to walk in that direction. "A dance, for instance?" "You would steal a dance?" He glanced toward her with a smile of such tender reverence that it set her heart aflutter. "Ah, there's the rub. Like so many of life's most precious riches, it would lose all its worth unless given freely." There was something different in his manner that touched her. Could she be feeling the stirrings of true love, at last? She clutched his arm a little tighter. "If you set such great store by it, then I would be honored to grant what you ask." They took their places among the other dancers, waiting for the orchestra to strike up the next tune. "Take care, my dear. There are treasures you possess that you must not surrender simply because someone else desires them." The air filled with music, and a spritely country dance swept them up before Sylvie could ask what he meant. But each time his hand closed over hers, each time their bodies brushed in the most innocent contact, each time she glanced up to find his gaze caressing her, a quiver of delicious elation beyond anything poets had tried to capture with words ran through her. After several dances, Sylvie and her partner revived themselves with champagne and assorted delicacies from the buffet. Then they danced again. By turns flirtatious, gallant and tender, Robin Hood seemed intent upon stealing her heart. Only when she recalled the haunted look in Lord Westborne's eyes did Sylvie feel a pang of remorse. But wait? Did she glimpse something sweetly familiar, yet deliciously novel, in the masked eyes of her dancing partner? Could it be there was more to Robin Hood — and Lord Westborne — than met the eye? *** Had someone sprinkled stardust over him and Sylvie and this whole enchanted night? For the first time since his earliest childhood, Lord Westborne felt ready to believe in magic. His mask and costume gave him a safe bastion from behind which to mount his romantic conquest. A counterfeit persona liberated him to speak the words he had hoarded in his heart for so long. Sylvie's ardent responses emboldened him to risk everything on this desperate gamble to win her. The way she held his arm, the way she smiled, the subtle caress in her voice when she spoke to him, all convinced West she could love him. All she'd needed was a chance to see him with fresh eyes. "Another dance?" he nodded toward the terrace. Sylvie considered for a moment then shook her head. "I have enjoyed dancing with you very much and I hope we may share many more in the future. But I have grown a trifle weary for tonight." She wasn't going to leave already? West wanted this night with her to last at least until dawn. "MOre champagne, then?" "I mustn't. I have had almost too much as it is." She did want to leave. West's heart sank, though he chided himself for being greedy of her company. This night had given him more than he'd dared hope for when he'd accepted Lord Daventry's invitation.
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Still he could not resist trying for more. "Almost too much may be just enough." "In that case, I have had just enough and should not indulge any further." "As you wish, then." He tried to stifle a sigh but did not fully succeed. "Good night. Our time together has meant more to me than you will ever know." He stooped to kiss her hand. While his lips pressed to her fingers, unable to part from them, she slowly raised her hand. "Good night? I have no wish to end our pleasant interlude so soon, sir." "You haven't?" "Indeed, not." She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. "I was hoping we might take a little stroll together under the stars. If you are willing?" If? A whole bottle of champagne could not have set him so delightfully befuddled as her unexpected invitation. "I would be honored." West lost all track of time as they walked arm in arm in the starlight, talking about everything and nothing. He felt as if he knew Sylvie better after this one evening than after all the years of their acquaintance. She was everything he had hoped and more. Every second in her company, he fell a little further under her spell. At last they found themselves wrapped in the magical perfume of a slumbering rose garden. An expectant hush fell over them and Lord Westborne knew the moment was right. Taking Sylvie in his arms, he kissed her in the way he'd waited so long to do. His kiss claimed her as his own, even as it offered himself to be her willing subject for the rest of his life. Yet even in this sweet fulfillment of his dream, a tiny doubt bedeviled him. Would Sylvie be responding with such innocent passion to his kiss if she knew his true identity? CHAPTER SIX Sylvie Somervillewas not some green girl. She had been kissed before, on several occasions. How could a lady hope to discover true love if she kept every gentleman at arm's length? Besides, she had a lively curiosity about the passionate side of relationships between men and women. Some of the kisses she'd received had not been very pleasant. Others had been quite pleasant indeed. The kiss she experienced now, in a starlit rose garden on an enchanted midsummer night, was so different from all the others it might have been another act altogether. Sylvie felt instinctively that this was her first kiss of true love, and she vowed it would not be her last! The gentleman of her dreams held her in an embrace as tender and yearning as it was strong and protective. At first, his lips brushed against hers with the gentle delicacy of a butterfly's wing or the first warm breeze of spring. More than all the words in the world, his kiss assured her she was a rare and wondrous lady. Like the chivalrous knights of old, he would give her his whole heart in homage, asking nothing in return but permission to cherish her. Sylvie was not some damsel in a tower, however, content to be admired from afar. She repented if she had ever let him think so. Pressing her lips to his with greater urgency, at the same time she let them melt against his with a subtle quiver that begged for more. He did not hesitate to oblige her, but swept her up in a masterful embrace, beguiling her to part her lips so he could push their kiss to breathtaking depths. Sylvie yielded to him with a sigh of exultant surrender.
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Their kiss held all the comfort and contentment of homecoming while promising a lifetime of new discoveries and thrilling adventures to delight her. She had been right to wait for this — to wait for him. If only she had not been wrong about so much else! "Please don't stop!" she gasped when he drew back a little. She wanted nothing to wake either of them from this midsummer night's dream into which they'd strayed. "Wed me, then!" He rained kisses on her ear and neck as he spoke. "And I will never stop." The featherlight graze of his lips against her skin tickled in the most delightful way. How might it feel on other parts of her body? "Wed?" A froth of laughter bubbled out of her. "Is this not rather sudden?" "Not half soon enough." He continued to ply kisses down her neck and over her bare shoulder. "I have waited for you too long." The rasp of unrequited desire in his voice roused Sylvie, even while she reproached herself. Cradling his face in her hands, she crooned her reply. "I have waited all my life for you." "Let's not tarry a moment longer, then." His hand ran through the cascade of curls that tumbled from her headdress. "What?" she gasped. "Run away to Gretna at this hour?" Not that she would hesitate if it were the only means of making him hers. The passionate haste of an elopement appealed to her romantic spirit. But there was a furtive and selfish side to it as well. She wanted their family and friends to share in their joy. She wanted the whole world to see her pride in becoming his wife. *** The warm weight of Sylvie in his arms made Lord Westborne quite delirious. He shook his head in answer to her question about eloping. "Even that would not be soon enough for me." "Then how…?" She subsided in a gurgle of delight as he returned to kissing her shoulders. "A ceremony is only…the witnessing." He kept his lips in contact with her rose-petal skin, so that every word became a kiss. "What truly makes a man and woman husband and wife is the vows they make to one another. Will you make those vows with me, here? Every star in the heavens can bear witness." "Wed in a rose garden at midnight?" She lingered over the words. "How vastly romantic!" She was a creature of romance. No wonder she had given him no encouragement over the years. He had given her none — not a look or a word or a touch to convey the slightest hint of his true feelings for her. Nor had he been truthful with himself about the reason for his reticence. At first he'd blamed his hesitation on her youth, blinding himself to her blossoming womanhood. Then he'd pretended to protect her from her own tender heart, when in truth it was his heart that needed protection. He had been prepared to wait and hope and pine for Sylvie — expecting her to give him some encouragement, rather than risk revealing his love in case she might tell him she could never return it. If his cousin Lucius had not pushed him into it, would West be here with her now, a word away from gaining his heart's desire?
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"Well?" he prompted her. "Will you?" "How could I refuse?" "Very easily, I'm afraid. But I hope you won't." More than he had hoped for anything in his life. "Never fear." She traced his lips with the tip of her forefinger. Then she spoke the three most beautiful words West had ever heard. "I am yours." He took her hands in his. "I promise, by all the stars in the heavens and by all the love in my heart, I will honor and cherish you as my wife forever." "That's lovely! Much nicer than the words they make you say in church." The warmth of her breath caressed his face. "I promise, by all the stars in the heavens and by all the love in my heart, I will honor and cherish you as my husband forever." She was his at long last! A great warm, foamy wave of relief threatened to knock West off his feet. "You have made me the happiest person in the world!" "The happiest man, perhaps," Sylvie corrected him with an impish chuckle. "Aye." West swept her into his arms again. "The very happiest man!" He kissed her again with all the unappeased hunger that had once gnawed at his heart. The assurance that she returned his feelings made him bolder. His hands ranged over her, acquainting him with every delectable curve of her body through the fine muslin of her gown. The ragged gust of her breath, the way she draped herself against him, her sighs of pleasure, convinced him of her matching desire. She trembled in his arms. "Are you cold, my love?" He gathered her closer to him…if that were possible. "Can I fetch you a wrap? Or do you wish to go inside?" Sylvie shook her head. "I am not cold. I am on fire. The only wrap I want is your arms. I do want to go inside, though." West struggled to contain his disappointment. "To my bed," whispered Sylvie. "But only if you promise to join me." "Join you?" West nearly dropped her. "In bed?" "Why not?" Delicious, teasing laughter rippled through her. "We just wed, didn't we?" West's mouth went dry. His body, already roused to an extremity he could barely stand, responded to her invitation. "Yes, but —" "I want my wedding night, husband." She tugged him toward the house. "And I cannot wait." All his life, Lord Westborne had been a careful, guarded, responsible fellow. Scores of prudent reasons to resist her tempting invitation clamored in his mind. But they were no match for the love that swelled in his heart, or the ache of desire that racked his body.
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"Neither can I!" CHAPTER SEVEN Would she be doing this if she had a little less champagne inside her? The notion flitted through Sylvie Somerville's mind while she and her "bridegroom" stole into the darkened house. Meanwhile, the masked ball to celebrate Lord Daventry's engagement continued out on the south lawn. A few moments earlier the lovers had made private vows of marriage in the rose garden, under the stars. While all very romantic, those vows would not protect Sylvie from scandal if her new husband declined to repeat them later in front of human witnesses. The moment she latched her bedroom door behind them and he folded her in his embrace, all her doubts fled. He was not the one who'd suggested this tryst. It was she who had been unwilling to wait. Having found true love at last, she was eager to explore all the delicious sensations he provoked in her while they were still so fresh and tender. Her heart and her honor were safe in his keeping. Champagne or no champagne, Sylvie had never been more certain of anything in her life. Music wafted in through her half-opened window on the mild night air. A faint shimmer of star and lantern light bathed the darkened room, enough for Sylvie to discern vague shapes and shadows. Her bridegroom nuzzled her neck. "If you change your mind at any time, please tell me and I will stop." He inhaled deeply, as if her scent was the only air that would sustain him. "I swear I will…if it kills me." Sylvie subsided against him with a wanton chuckle. "Do not expect me to excuse you so easily from your duties as a husband." With that, she untied her mask and tossed it to the floor. Then she took his hand and led him toward the bed. On the way, she heard the quiver of arrows fall from his Robin Hood costume. He must have removed his mask, too. For when he eased Sylvie onto the cool sheets and began to kiss her again, his upper face was as delightfully naked as the rest of him would soon be. For a while they reveled in kissing and touching through their clothes, murmuring endearments, not worrying that their knees might buckle when passion swept over them. And sweep it did, with a fluid force as powerful and inevitable as billows on the ocean. Her lover kicked off his boots, and Sylvie, her slippers. With impatient, fumbling fingers, she tugged at the laces that held his vest closed. Gradually his kisses grew more fevered, stoking the blaze of her desire. His lips strayed lower, pushing aside the light fabric of her Greek chiton bodice with his chin until he had bared her breast for his delectation…and hers. Sylvie swallowed a little gasp when his lips closed over the crest of her bosom, followed by the first hot swipe of his tongue. She arched herself toward him, her gasp muting into a purr of pleasure. She could feel his lips curve into a smile as he continued to favor her with the delightful worship of his body. Slipping his hand beneath the hem of her gown, he began to trace the contour of her leg. With every inch his velvet touch ascended, her delight and her need grew, until she wondered how her senses could contain them. When he halted, then began to retreat, only a forceful application of his lips upon hers kept Sylvie from crying out her sharp, sweet yearning. "I must get out of these clothes!" His hoarse whisper rasped in Sylvie's ear, echoing her own thoughts precisely. After a brief, frantic struggle to remove their costumes, they subsided back onto the sheets with soft sounds of fulfillment, relishing the contact between their naked bodies, which fairly glowed with mutual desire. Sylvie
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pushed her lover onto his back, pinning him beneath her, eager to explore and excite him, as he had done to her. "Enough!" He spoke in a soft, urgent growl at last. "If you keep this up, I will be no more good to you." "Indeed?" She chuckled. "Is that how it works? I fear I have much to learn about the doings of husbands and wives." "I have no vast experience myself," he admitted. "Shall we learn together?" Sylvie wriggled against him, delighting in the feel of his firm-muscled chest against her dewy bosom. "I am prepared to devote countless hours to the pursuit of such vital knowledge." "And I shall be your willing partner in…study." Once again he began to kiss and fondle her with untutored prowess born of desire and love for her. As the music of a summer night engulfed them and swept them away, they came together at last in a surge of wild magic that would have been worth a lifetime of waiting and wanting. The music had long since died away and dawn's rosy light had begun to filter in the window when West's eyes snapped open, roving restlessly while his body lay in breath-bated stillness. Dear heaven, what had he done? He'd thought last night had all been a delicious, champagne-sodden dream. Now he stared at Sylvie, her features relaxed in the soft, trusting tranquility of sleep as she nestled beside him in her bed. Her bed! The spell of their midsummer night tryst shattered into a thousand perilous shards. How might Sylvie look when she opened her lovely eyes and saw him in her bed rather than Viscount Allingham? West's newly vulnerable heart quailed at the prospect. He had been reluctant to coerce Sylvie into wedding him out of duty. Now he had done something far more despicable. He'd made his way into her bed under false pretenses, in the guise of another man. Having yielded to his seduction, she would now be forced to wed him to prevent a scandal. If she could ever forgive him the former, West was certain she would hate him for the latter. Almost as much as he hated himself for abandoning his restraint and his scruples. Last night, somewhere between the rose garden and her bedroom, his befuddled conscience had urged him to doff his mask so Sylvie would know it was he. Caught in the wayward grip of passion, he had ignored his own better judgment. Now, in the soft, cool light of daybreak, West bitterly repented his impetuous actions. For a bittersweet moment, he let his gaze brood over Sylvie's naked body, her lithe limbs wrapped in the lazy contentment of sated desire. He wanted her now as much as he had last night. More, perhaps, for having experienced the rapture of their lovemaking. He could not bear to tarnish the memory of their enchanted night with the aversion he might see in her eyes if he stayed, nor with the kind of bitter recriminations he deserved from her. Unable to face her until he had some time to marshal his old defenses, West eased himself out of Sylvie's bed, gathered up his clothes and stole away. CHAPTER EIGHT Sylvie stirred in her sleep when the door of her bedroom closed with faint finality. She made an effort to snuggle deeper into her lover's warm embrace, only to find him gone.
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Gone! She pried her eyes open, trying to push aside the muddled fog of sleep and ignore the queasy feeling deep in her stomach. It had all happened as she remembered, hadn't it? The kiss, the vows, the midnight bliss of lovemaking — they weren't just some romantic dream conjured up by the atmosphere of Lord Daventry's masked ball and the quantity of champagne she'd consumed? She might have been tempted to think so, but for the mild ache of her surrendered virginity and the memory of what potent delight she had found in her lover's arms. That had been beyond the powers of her imagination. When she glanced about the room, hoping for some tangible sign, Sylvie spied her lover's black mask lying on the floor with her silver one. She climbed out of bed and picked it up, turning it over and over in her hands. Why had he stolen away so early, without so much as a kiss of parting? A little shiver went through her when she imagined them rediscovering the pleasures of the night all over again at sunrise. How much might it add to the experience, to be able to feast her eyes on the firm, masculine beauty of his naked body? To see the flicker of carnal admiration for her in his gaze, muting into the soft glow of devotion. She could picture it all. Another shiver followed the first, though far less pleasant. Had she made vows of eternal love with the right man? Had the lover she'd welcomed into her bed been the one she'd intended? In the enchantment of last night, she had been so certain. In the cool, rational light of morning, Sylvie feared she might have made a disastrous mistake. Neither could she trust his feelings for her. If he cared as much as he'd made her believe, surely he would not have departed this morning with neither word nor kiss nor any assurance of his identity. What a harsh jest Fate might have played on her — teaching her the truth of her feelings only to place her in a situation where she might have to wed a man she could not love. She wanted to burrow under the bedclothes and weep her heart out. But she did not. She was a woman now, Sylvie reminded herself. Not a flighty girl who would let starlight fancies blind her to the ripe golden promise of every day. A woman must be willing to strive for what she wanted in life, make firm choices, then live with the consequences and make all she could out of them. Which meant, she must undertake the most difficult task she had ever set herself. She must talk honestly and intimately with Auberon Westborne and compel him to answer her in kind. *** West's courage almost deserted him when he spied Sylvie marching toward him through the orangery of Helmhurst. She had a determined look on her face and in her hand she clutched the black mask he'd worn the previous night. The mask behind which he had hidden to deceive and seduce her. The moment he'd feared for so long had come at last. In fact, it would be worse than he had feared, for not only would he lose any hope of Sylvie's love, he would also lose her respect and her friendship. He had not treasured those two precious gifts highly enough. "West?" Sylvie's face looked pale and there were dusky shadows beneath her eyes. West had never seen her so resolute nor so achingly beautiful. "Do you know anything about this?" She held out the mask. "I must have the truth now, mind. For the sake of a very long and dear acquaintance."
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A dear acquaintance against which he had so despicably transgressed. West reached for her hand as he sank to his knees. "I would beg your forgiveness, but I fear that would be asking the impossible. I admit I wore that mask last night, and Allingham's costume as well. I'd overheard the two of you talking in the garden the night before and planning to meet." He did not tell her that Lord Daventry had provided him with the costume. The blame was his for putting it to the use he had. Before Sylvie could berate him, he rushed on, desperate to make a clean breast of it. "I was a rank scoundrel to deceive you and compromise you as I did last night. My only feeble excuse is that I have loved you so long and, lately, with so little hope." "Honor will compel us to wed." West kept his eyes cast down, shrinking from the contempt he was sure to see in Sylvie's eyes. He knew what he must do to make amends, though it would condemn him to a lifetime of fresh heartbreak. "I swear I will make no demands on you once we are married and I will allow you every freedom you would enjoy as a single woman." If that meant the humiliation of watching her flaunt her love affairs under his nose or even letting the children of her lovers bear his name, it was no more than he deserved. "Auberon Westborne!" Sylvie cried. She pulled at his hand. Thinking she wished to be released from his touch, West let her go. To his amazement, Sylvie grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. "Do you truly believe I would have taken you into my bed last night if I had not known all along it was you?" "Known?" West shook his head. This could not be a summer night's dream, for it was morning. A morning suddenly sparkling with golden hope and promise. "Of course, known!" Sylvie hurled herself into his arms. "How could you think I would accept such a sudden proposal unless I had known my suitor for a very long time, and grown to love him without ever realizing it?" "You did? You do?" His heart was too full to say more just then, so he let his lips speak for him…without words. When at last they drew apart, Sylvie looked deep into his eyes, and West saw the love he had long despaired of finding. "I will forgive your error in thinking I could give myself to a man I'd just met." She dealt his nose a teasing bat with her forefinger. "If you can forgive my youthful folly in believing I could never fall in love with a man I've known all my life. A man I mean to know a good deal better in the years to come," she added, offering him her lips in earnest of her heart. "A man I mean to love forever." "Know better," West agreed, savoring a world turned topsy-turvy in the most delightful way. "Love forever." Deep, long and sweet they kissed, then, discovering a magic that needed no champagne, no rose gardens and no starlight to weave its potent spell around their hearts.
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Marrying Mary by Lori Foster Mary asks Reed for a very special birthday present ? lessons in lovemaking. Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| To Reed Darlin?s way of thinking, the most exciting thing the small town of Cooper, Ohio, had to offer was Miss Mary Drake. A modest town built around moderate pig farms, a small electric plant, and rows upon rows of corn, nothing it offered could begin to measure up to Mary. She was a lot more interesting than the rusted statue of the original mayor sitting plumb center in the Town Square, decorated by a bevy of pigeons and their abundant droppings. Reed watched with hungry eyes as she walked into his diner, her narrow nose in the air as she nodded to the other customers. No one swaggered the way Mary did. As the town?s only female construction worker ? which effectively set her apart from the housewives, the shop workers, and the farmers? daughters ? she was beyond cocky. And he liked it. Oh yeah, he liked it a lot. In anticipation of her usual order, he poured a cup of coffee. Black, with a lot of sugar. Mary?s scuffed, concrete-coated boots thudded across the polished linoleum of Reed?s small, inherited restaurant. Her wellworn jeans had tears in both knees, showing smooth, tanned skin that drove him crazy. But it was nothing compared to his reaction to her tank top, now stuck to her breasts, drawn by her sweat as well as her curves. She?d removed the cotton pullover she usually wore while working with the crew, and had it dangling from her back pocket like a tail. Ever since Reed had realized that Mary was not only the perfect friend, just plain perfect, he?d been going crazy trying to think of ways to make her realize it, too. They?d been pals so long, he?d almost missed the obvious. And the fact that Mary had been so caught up in proving her independence, in snubbing her nose at everyone who tried to judge her, hadn?t helped. She deliberately set herself apart. But no more. Today was the day he would make his move. He patted the ring in his pocket and smiled. Her chocolate-brown eyes shone with frustration both from the heat of the summer day and the hard work of building a new library. "Reed Darlin, you?re a sight for sore eyes." She always said his two names together, making them sound like an endearment, to which he replied, "Mary, honey, I do try." Her frown lifted into a grin, so endearing and audacious he wanted to snatch her off the barstool and kiss her silly. Of course the regulars ? customers who had been coming in every evening since back when his parents ran the place ? might have something to say about that. The townspeople were conservative and had plenty to say about a woman in construction. He had to go slow. He had to break her in to his plans real easy like. To many, Mary was an enigma. But Reed understood her. She was as feminine and sexy as any woman could be. But because there were things her frail mama couldn?t do, and her lazy daddy wouldn?t, Mary had learned to do them. All of them. She was stubbornness personified, and Reed was crazy nuts about her. She was the woman of his dreams, the reason other women had never quite measured up. No one could compare with his Mary. She took a long, gulping drink of her coffee, smacked the cup back on the counter like an accomplished beer guzzler, and announced, "I want to be pleasured." Reed stared, trying to decipher what he?d heard and the sexual meaning his brain had automatically supplied. "Come again?"
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"You heard me right, Reed Darlin. It?s my birthday soon and I?m sick of not doing things I want to do. I?m sick of other women knowing things I don?t know." He glanced around, hopeful no one heard her. "You said you want to ? " "Be pleasured. That?s right. You wanna give it a shot?" Slowly, using the time to get his bearings, Reed untied the apron strings at the back of his waist and tossed the apron onto the counter. "Come with me." He reached across the counter, caught her elbow, and highstepped her to the end of the bar until he could swing her around the corner and into his office. Someone called his name just before he closed the door, but Reed ignored the summons. When he glanced down at Mary ? his sweet, innocent, curious Mary ? she was grinning with wicked delight. "What are you doing, talking like that?" She laughed outright. "You should see your face. You look like you swallowed a goat." "So you were teasing?" Relief warred with disappointment. "Nope." Her silky blond hair, straight as a bone and baby fine, swung over her shoulder as she shook her head. "I?m turning 21. Twenty-one, Reed Darlin! And yet I?ve never had an ? " With a rush of heat racing up his neck, he clamped his hand over her mouth while his eyes widened and his face darkened. Surely she wasn?t about to say what he thought she was about to say. "You weren?t about to say ? " "Yes I was, too. An orgasm. Isn?t that downright criminal?" She looked like she wanted an actual answer, so Reed gave her one. "I suppose." Then he thought about it and asked, "You?ve really never...at all?" "The local guys haven?t exactly been knocking my door down." Her eyes narrowed. "Not that I care, you understand. They can think what they like ? since they will anyway." Reed ignored part of that. He didn?t like to think about her with any other man. It made him nuts. "Not even... you know. By yourself?" She punched him hard in the chest and her face looked scalded. "What kind of thing is that to be asking a lady?" Reed laughed as he rubbed away the sting of her small fist. "Mary, honey, you?re about as far from a ?lady? as I am. Maybe further, considering I at least know how to cook." She examined her nails, picking at one jagged edge. "You?re a domestic god. The diner is even more popular since your folks left town and you took over. Everyone loves your apple pie. But the million-dollar question is: do you know how to pleasure a woman? ?Cuz I really am serious and I naturally thought of you first. Given the way all the women ogle you, I figured you could handle the job." "That is, unless you?re not interested." Her face pinkened as she sneaked a quick look at him. "I mean, we?ve been friends for like...forever, so I know I can trust you, right? And I figured if it didn?t work out, we?d still be friends, so there?s no real risk. Right?" "If you?re looking to me to condone this nutty idea...," he grinned, "...I do." Then he remembered the ring in his pocket. One night of pleasure wasn?t all he wanted to give her. Nope. He wanted to have her with him every night, for the rest of his life. She belonged to him.
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From grade school on, he?d understood that he and Mary had a special bond, one he?d thought was mere friendship, but in the past few months he?d realized it was more than that. Mary was his better half. He enjoyed her company, and once he?d gotten past the idea of her being a pal, he?d understood just how innately sexy she was ? though she sure tried to hide it. On some instinctive level, he figured Mary knew they were meant to be together too. The fact that she came to him for this was telling, and he wasn?t about to waste the opportunity. No sirree. But he had to take full advantage, had to convince her they were more than close friends, that he was good for more than one fast fling. He nodded as he said, "You know what I?m thinking?" She shrugged. "You?re male. I can likely imagine, given my offer." "I?m thinking there?s probably a lot of things you?ve never done." "Like what?" Then her brown eyes widened and she whispered in scandalized delight, "you mean like... sexual things?" His control was already stretched too thin, given her outrageous declaration. If she kept talking like that ? in the intimate way he?d begun to dream of recently ? he?d lose it for sure. And then people would no doubt notice. But he didn?t want anyone gossiping about Mary. At least, not any more than they already did. "We?ll get to that," he promised, sounding strangled. "But I was talking about other things. Like...I dunno. Isn?t there something you always wanted to do, but haven?t?" "Sure. I?ve considered a tattoo ? " "No!" "Or maybe one of those really short, spiky hairdos ? " "Mary," he threatened, weaving his fingers through her soft hair. "You cut off one single strand and I swear I?ll turn you over my knee ? " Her grin was pure temptation. "So you like my hair?" "Yeah. I like your hair." He?d concocted quite a few fantasies over her long, pale hair. He gulped down a groan. "Now get serious. There must be something, besides this...this pleasure business, that you?ve always wanted to do and haven?t gotten around to." She scrunched up her face in thought. "Ride a horse." She glared, in case he decided to tease her. "You know I?m not crazy about the darn things." He did know. Everyone knew. And she hated that. Mary had gotten used to hiding any and all weaknesses from others. Except him, but then, he knew her better than anyone. In a lower voice, she grumbled, "What?s so great about riding a horse anyway?" "Ah Mary. It?s how you ride and who you ride with." Reed threw an arm around her shoulders and started her back toward the door. "Tonight. How about eight o?clock? Come to my place and I?ll teach you how to ride Biscuit." "Biscuit?" Her alarm was real. Biscuit, contrary to the cutesy name, was an enormous, powerful creature. But he loved Reed and he was very well trained, so he?d be perfect for tonight?s lesson. "I can control Biscuit, you know
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that." He leaned down and deliberately let his mouth brush her ear. "And I can promise you?ll enjoy this ride." She tried to whirl around and face him, but he held her shoulders and walked her through the door. "Eight o?clock," he reiterated. "And Mary?" Her eyes looked dazed and hot with curiosity. "Hmm?" "You might want to start thinking about what else you haven?t done. After all, this is your week." They?d always celebrated birthday weeks with a series of small silly gifts and gags. One day between friends, they?d reasoned, wasn?t near enough. He reached into his jeans pocket, felt the ring, and dug past it to the small plastic box. "Here you go. Day one." Mary looked at the plastic encased four-leaf clover and she grinned. Her small fist closed around it. "Sending me luck, huh?" Actually, he?d been trying to give himself some. And with what he planned for tonight, he figured it had worked. "Don?t be late." "Don?t disappoint me." With that command, she tossed some change on the counter to pay for her coffee before sauntering away. Reed watched the sway of her tight behind in the snug soft jeans and felt his heart give a heavy thump. Lord have mercy. He could use this week, combined with Mary?s new curiosity, to show her what an ideal mate he?d be. And once she understood that, she?d be his. Forever. The horse whinnied softly as Mary approached. Normally she?d be too nervous to get near it, but with Reed standing next to the stallion, she was drawn closer and closer. Reed stood an even six feet, making her feel extra tiny at five feet, two inches. And though she was strong and toned from her physical labor on the job, Reed had her beat hands down in the muscle department. Today he wore a pair of old jeans, cowboy boots, and a snug white T-shirt with a hat pulled low, hiding his dark, straight hair. She wore similar clothes, only her T-shirt was yellow and she?d skipped the hat. The idea of being close to Reed had her heart racing. She?d been thinking more and more about him lately, in ways she?d never considered before. Maybe it was the fact that she finally had her life on an even keel. Her mother had mentioned remarrying, and her job had given her new security. She had plenty of money in the bank, the house was fixed up, and if the town still looked down on her, well, that couldn?t be helped. She knew she?d done all she could. But with some of those worries put to rest, her mind had taken the time to consider other things. Like how sexy Reed was, and how manly. Not many men could have worn an apron all day and still made the females giddy with just a look. It had been the idea of those other women chasing him that had put the bee in her bonnet. Since she?d started seeing him in a new light, she positively hated the idea of him with another woman. Worse than that, she hated her own jealousy. "The place looks good."
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Small talk between them had never been necessary, and Reed cocked a brow. "Thanks. I manage, and of course, with Mom and Dad retired to Florida, there?s no reason to keep a lot of farm animals. The horses keep me busy enough." Reed had inherited not only his parents? small diner, but their home as well. What had once been a busy farm was now just a lot of beautiful wild land, filled with wildflowers and fruit trees and privacy. "You ready?" he asked, eyeing her up and down. Mary had the feeling he was figuring out just what he?d do to her and how he?d do it. Though why in heck they had to do it on a horse was beyond her. "Sure. Saddle him up and we?ll get this over with." "Not a very enthusiastic attitude. I don?t want to ?get it over with,? sweets. Nope. We?re gonna take this nice and slow and easy." Her breath caught. That was a sensual promise if ever she?d heard one. After several rapid heartbeats, she managed to ask, "The saddle, Reed Darlin?" "We don?t need one, Mary, honey." "We don?t... what do you mean, we don?t need a saddle?" She hated sounding alarmed, but the idea of climbing onto the big Gray without a saddle left her paralyzed. Reed patted the horse?s shoulder and then strode toward her. The Gray never moved other than to twitch his ears in curiosity. Reed stopped only a few feet from her and held out his hand. "Come here." She trusted him, Mary reminded herself. And she wanted this. A lot. All her life, she?d considered Reed her very own. He was her best friend, her confidante, and more often than not, her partner in practical pranks. They?d grown up together, knew each other inside and out. If she hadn?t been so set on proving herself to the rest of the town, of trying to show that she was different from her parents, she?d probably have realized earlier that she wanted Reed to be hers in every way. Mary put her hand in his. "Will you...kiss me?" She asked it shyly, but she needed him to do something to help her get over her nervousness. "And not a brotherly kiss like you usually do. I heard Rachel say you had a killer mouth. And Beth Sue agreed with her. I want that kind of kiss. Okay?" His jaw locked. "For God?s sake. I haven?t touched either of them since high school!" "They?re still talking about kisses they got in high school?" Her stomach seemed to curl, and she murmured, "must?ve been one helluva kiss." Then: "Show me." His gaze dropped to her mouth. His own opened as he breathed deeply, his hand tightening on hers. And then she was against him, pulled to her tiptoes so that her body meshed with his from knees to chest and Mary could only think wow! as his hot mouth settled on her startled lips. Without reservation he kissed her deeply, his tongue ? wicked and warm and oh-so-talented ? tasted her, teased her. Mary clutched at him and when he finally lifted his head, she licked her lips, struggled for breath, and said, "Killer. Yep, that about describes it." Reed turned without saying a word and using a block, vaulted onto the horse. He held out his hand once again, and Mary, captured by the heat in his eyes and the intensity of his purpose, did the same. Reed settled her in front of him and with a slight nudge that had her grabbing the horse?s mane, started on an easy walk. "Move with the horse," he whispered right next to her ear, making goose bumps ride up and down her arms. Her thighs rested along the long hard length of his. His cheek against her own was tantalizing, his scent
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surrounding her. She?d always known how muscular his arms were; long years of hard work on the farm had built him into a female fantasy. But feeling those arms around her now had an all-new effect. This was Reed, she thought, so much more than just a friend! Slowly, Reed put both reins in one hand and curled his free arm around her waist. "You?re too tense, hon. Biscuit can feel your nervousness. Take some deep breaths. Relax." Was he out of his mind? "Okay." She tried, she really did, but this was all so different, so very nice. She could feel the acceleration of his breath, Reed?s heartbeat thundering against her back. "I?ve dreamed of being with you like this," he breathed against her ear, making her own heartbeat riot. "I?ve always loved the way you talk and walk and your attitude. So sexy." She laughed at that, the sound tinged with excitement. "Only you would think so, Reed Darlin. Everyone else in this town thinks I?m an oddity." "No, not odd, just intimidating. Most guys don?t like that." "But you do?" He kissed her neck, startling a gasp from deep in her throat. She?d had very few kisses since most of the folks in the town didn?t get within spitting distance of her. They disliked her folks and her by association. Not that she blamed them. Her parents, lazy and unkempt, had been the blot in an otherwise quaint community. A kiss on the neck... well, she?d never realized how sensitive that area was. "I like a woman with guts," Reed murmured, "a woman with her own mind." She hadn?t received that many compliments in her lifetime, and never one that touched her so deeply. "Oh, Reed..." She almost felt ready to cry ? an aberration all in itself ? then he said, "you have no idea of all the things I?d like to do to you." She snapped out of her melancholy real quick. "Tell me." "Everything a man does with a sexy woman, honey. That?s what I want to do." Sounding skeptical, because this was a whole lot more than she?d expected, Mary said, "Since when?" The fading sunshine warmed her skin. The only sounds were their breaths, the buzz of insects and the rustling of trees and shrubs as the horse continued to amble forward aimlessly. Reed nuzzled her nape, making her shiver despite the warmth of the day. "You?re so oblivious to your appeal." "Maybe that?s because I don?t have any. Appeal, I mean." He snorted. "You?re the sexiest thing around. And if no one in town has told you so, that?s your doing. You hold yourself back, and refuse to get to know anyone. You?ve got caution signs painted all over you. The way you stand, the way you look past people." "Granted," he said, when she started to refute him, "some of the older folks gave you a hard time when you were growing up. They didn?t understand your parents and when you took your own path, they didn?t
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understand you either. Here in Cooper, everyone expects everyone else to be average and mundane. Because you?re not, you scare them." "I stick out like a sore thumb." "Not exactly." He kissed her neck again, and Mary decided she liked that a lot. She hoped he?d continue putting the little pecks there. "You?re unique, special. I?ve seen plenty of the women look at you with admiration. It takes guts to be different, to do what you like best." Mary twisted to look at him. "And I?m good at what I do." Reed laughed. "There?s no doubt about that. Half the guys working with you are disgruntled because you outwork them. Maybe not in strength, but sure as certain in sheer doggedness." What should have sounded vaguely like an insult instead sounded like the sweetest compliment she?d ever received. "They hate having to work with me." "Ha! I?ve seen the way they look at you, and I can tell you it?s not with resentment. I?d bet my diner that they?re thinking about all your determination, your arrogance, and wondering if you?d be like that in bed." Mary blinked hard. "What the heck does one have to do with the other?" "Honey, where men are concerned, everything has to do with sex. Those guys are wondering if you always have that much energy, if you?re always that forward." "I think you?re teasing me." "Nope." His arms squeezed her closer still and his voice dropped to a rough growl. "I know, because I?ve been thinking the same things." Everything in Mary tightened. She twisted around to see his face, to try to determine if he was serious or not. But the second she did, Reed kissed her. And if his earlier kiss had been a scorcher, this one positively burned her up. She ended up tilted against his arm, her head ached back while he took her mouth and taught her a lot about the pleasures of a deep kiss. She eagerly accepted the lesson, but all too soon, Reed released her. Stunned, Mary slowly managed to open her eyes. She saw Reed?s house and realized the horse had merely circled his property. Off to the side, ducks glided across the small lake and a fish jumped. "You okay?" he asked, his voice gruff, his fingertips rough on her cheek. She sighed. Oh, she was fine. Real fine. She smiled. "You?re an incredible kisser." "You know what I think we should do now?" There was a wealth of suggestion in his tone, but Mary, now determined to prolong this new arrangement, said, "make out at the drive-in." "What?" Reed?s voice was so low and rough she barely recognized it. "Tomorrow night." She stroked his large, wonderful hands that now rested on her belly. She nuzzled her head against his hard, comforting chest. "I want to make out with you, Reed Darlin." He hesitated, then asked, "This is another thing you?ve never done?"
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"You know I haven?t. No guy wants to be seen at the Dirty Dent with the town oddball. It?s too public." The local drive-in had been dubbed the Dirty Dent because of its reputation for R-rated movies and privacy for making out. Mary wanted to find out more about both. Reed turned his face into her throat to kiss her. "I told you, you?re intimidating." "I don?t intimidate you," she pointed out. "No." He drew a deep breath and galloped the horse toward the barn. "I?ll pick you up at nine-thirty tomorrow." Mary smiled. "I can?t wait...." Reed closed the diner up a few minutes early, rushing the last of his lingering customers out the door. Old man Neely, who liked to hang out until the very last minute, complained loudly. But when Reed proudly explained he had a date with Mary, Neely grinned real big and strolled out. Word of his date would be all over town by morning. Mary may not yet realize that he was staking a claim, but every other guy in town would ? and that suited Reed just fine. They?d all be cursing themselves for hesitating too long and bemoaning what they?d missed out on. Reed?s hands shook as he drove home, and he almost missed the driveway to his farmhouse. His harebrained plan to throw Mary off balance by showing her how perfect they?d be together had backfired. He?d been aroused ever since their horseback ride. Yet she wanted to make out at the drive-in. A cold shower did him no good at all, not with the promise of the coming night. Years ago, he?d considered taking Mary to the drive-in. His adolescent hormones had tried to insist that she was female, attractive, and therefore a good candidate to appease his lust. And his hormones had been dead on. At the time, however, Mary had needed a friend more than anything else, and Reed had cared enough about her to stop at friendship. Now he had to wonder if that had been a colossal mistake. He?d gotten so used to Mary being his best friend, he?d almost overlooked the discovery of his youth ? that she was attractive, sexy as hell, and too intelligent for her own good. She was everything he admired in a woman, and if he had his way, she?d be his woman before much longer. The tires on his truck complained when he braked too hard in front of her apartment that night. As he got out, she appeared on the front stoop. Reed?s eyes nearly fell from his head. Looking up and down the street to make sure no one else saw her, he darted forward, grabbed her arm, and hustled her sexy little butt into the truck. "What in heaven?s name are you wearing, girl?" Mary grinned as she seated herself, smoothing out her short denim skirt and twitching the skinny straps of her lacy camisole. "Just summer clothes, Reed Darlin." He frowned at her as he got behind the wheel and started the powerful engine. "Looks like lingerie if you ask me." She snapped her seat belt closed as she glared at his profile. "I saw you flirting with a group of women a few weeks ago in the diner, and half of them were wearing clothes just like this!"
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That did nothing to appease him. "Yeah, well they weren?t you and I wasn?t flirting. I was just...being sociable to the customers. It?s how I keep my business, you know." She snorted, prompting him to smile. Mary sounded jealous, and he liked that a lot. She obviously didn?t know that in the last few months he?d done nothing but pine over her while trying to figure out how to convince her to move beyond friendship to intimacy. Since his mind-boggling revelation that he wanted to be Mary?s lover, other women didn?t interest him at all. He?d see Mary in her hard hat, and it did crazy things to him. Never mind what would happen if he caught her swinging a hammer! It was probably because he?d always known that deep down, despite the tough exterior she liked to show off to the rest of the town, she was a real softie. Unique, but still so feminine. She had a mind of her own, a healthy need for physical activity and the fresh outdoors, and a curiosity that had driven her to ask him for sexual pleasure. He loved her, plain and simple. A more perfect woman didn?t exist for him. "You got something to cover up with until after I?ve paid and gotten us parked?" "Afraid the attendant will get ideas?" "I know he?ll get ideas ? " Reed reached across the seat and slid his hand over her knee. " ? because I?m getting ideas. Real hot ones." Mary pulled on the cotton blouse she?d brought with her. She didn?t button it, but she did pull it closed in the front. "Happy now?" "I will be. After we?re sitting in the dark and I can get that damn shirt back off you again." He left his hand on her leg and explained softly, "I don?t want anyone else looking at you, sweets. At least, not like that." She appeared mollified. "As long as you look, that?s all I was after." Reed grinned. "Mission accomplished." The drive-in was crowded when they arrived. As soon as it was dark enough, probably in another 10 minutes, the movie would start. Reed maneuvered the truck to the back of the lot, up close to where a border of trees kept anyone from parking behind him. A station wagon was to his right about four rows down, and there was no one to his left. It wasn?t the best spot to see the screen, but then, he didn?t care about that. He hung the speaker on the window, turned to Mary, then barely caught her as she launched herself at him, kissing his face, his ear, his nose. He laughed. "Hey, calm down, honey." "I haven?t been able to stop thinking about you!" Now that was nice to hear. Especially after he?d been suffering the pain of unrequited lust for so long. But with the right incentive, Mary as his wife, he could bear up a bit longer. She already knew they were terrific together in just about any situation; he intended to show her they?d be even better together sexually. But he had to move slowly. Mary was very new to this and the last thing Reed wanted was for her to feel used. She had to know that he acted out of love. Just saying it wouldn?t be enough; her parents had sometimes said it, but damned if they?d ever shown it. Remembering her painful youth, Reed caught her face and held it still for his kiss, a long, deep, eating kiss that had the windows steaming up just minutes before the speaker came on and the screen lit up. He loved
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everything about her, even those traits she considered quirks, and he wanted her to know it. Ignoring the movie, Reed continued to kiss her, taking and giving pleasure until Mary was tense and panting in his arms. Taking his cues from the way she moved against him, he slowly dragged his fingers over her shoulder, down her chest, and across one stiffened nipple. Her loud gasp gave him pause, and he said, "Do you like this?" "Yes." He shifted a little, releasing her long enough to move his seat back, then pulled her over the gears and into his lap. Mary clutched his shoulders, her eyes wide as he started to kiss her again. A moan on the screen drew her attention. They both looked up. Mary straightened, causing Reed to moan, too, as her rounded behind pressed against him. "What are they doing?" She sounded breathless, fascinated, and Reed stifled his impatience. He tried to focus on the movie, then grinned. "I?d call it heavy petting." Looking at him again, her expression devoid of any guile, she asked, "Do you want to do that with me?" His breath caught. "Oh yeah. I want to touch you everywhere, Mary, honey." She considered that. "I didn?t know..." Reed stroked her mouth with a fingertip. "Neither did I for awhile. Being with you, hanging out and laughing and having fun...I thought that was enough for the longest time. Then I figured out that when I?m with you, I could be myself. With the guys, I?m expected to act like a guy, ya know?" "How so?" He shrugged, trying to figure out the right words to say. "We?re supposed to drink beer, talk sports, and tell crude jokes." "We do that sometimes." Mary carried on the not-so-casual conversation as if she wasn?t sitting in his lap. It was all Reed could do to keep from panting. "Yeah, but with you," he said, drawn by the sight of her pretty mouth and moist lips, "I do it when I want to, not because it?s expected." Her fingers spread on his chest and she gave him a small, curious caress, feeling his muscles, which Reed knew were rock-hard in anticipation. She seemed intrigued by that, then asked, "What about when you?re with other women? Can?t you be yourself then?" He snorted. "Truth is, they drive me nuts, constantly primping and talking about dumb stuff." "I don?t primp, but...Reed, we talk about dumb stuff sometimes, too." He cupped her face and drew her closer. "That?s just it. With you it doesn?t feel dumb." Mary drew a deep breath, then stated, "I want to touch you. I?ve never... you know. Touched a guy there." Reed gulped. With his heart pounding, he whispered, "Anything you want, Mary." And he meant it.
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She glanced back at the movie, watched intently for a moment, then with her bottom lip caught between her teeth she curled her hand around him through his jeans. His entire body tightened and he cursed low. "You like that?" "I like that." "And this?" She stroked tentatively, causing him to break out in a sweat. "I especially like that," he croaked. "I?d like it more if you?d kiss me." "Here?" Her fingers pressed against him. Reed almost lost it, because far from sounding shocked, she sounded interested. "I meant my... my mouth. While you?re touching me." "Oh." Disappointment? He?d never survive this. "Use your tongue." "Okay." She was a potent kisser, and the combination of her mouth, her soft breasts in his hands, and her gentle caress on his erection, nearly did him in. "Enough." "But I like touching you." She tried to take his mouth again and ended up kissing his ear when he turned his face away. Her tongue stroked there too, and her soft breath played havoc with his libido. The sound emerging from his throat was part groan, part laugh. "Believe me, I like it more." "Then..." "No, I can?t take it, sweetheart." He struggled for breath and added, "The last thing I want to do is make love to you at a damned drive-in, yet I?m real close to doing just that." Her dark eyes gleamed in the dim reflection of the big screen. "You really do want me that much?" "Haven?t you been listening?" Her smile was slow and blinding. "Yeah, but the whole idea is taking some getting used to." Reed knew that, which was why he wanted so badly to go slow with her. If he scared her off, if she misunderstood his intentions, he could blow the whole thing. But if he went too slow, he might lose her to another man. A couple of times in the past guys had tried to cozy up to her. He still broke out in a sweat when he thought of it. Luckily Mary had never taken them seriously. She was too used to disdain from the town to take any compliments to heart. Which was all the more reason for him to convince her how precious she was to him, how important. Mary had more pride than any person he knew. Growing up in one of the least respected families in the neighborhood had hardened her determination, and made her pride a solid, unwavering shield. He'd never dent her pride, but he wanted her to trust him enough, to want him enough, to lower her guard completely. For him, and only for him.
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He pulled her head down to his shoulder and kissed her temple. "What next, sweetheart?" She burrowed closer, filling his heart with emotion, his head with need. "The stars." Reed grinned. "You wanna explain that?" He smoothed his hands over her back, down to her softly rounded hips. "I want to sleep under the stars. With you. Tonight." "Hell of an idea," he muttered. He started the truck, then lifted her into her seat, arranging her skirt, hooking her seatbelt for her. She watched him with soft, velvet-brown eyes. "Do you think," she murmured, "we could go just a little further tonight?" Reed froze for an instant, then gulped. "Yes." Within 30 seconds he had the truck out of the lot. The stars were out and she was willing and he was a man who could only take so much! "You picked the perfect night." Mary knew Reed was talking about the spectacular star-filled sky, but to her, any night with Reed would seem perfect. She was learning so much about him that she?d never known before ? like what a great mouth he had. And how wonderful he could make her feel when he touched her. She'd hated hearing about his expertise with other women, how much they'd enjoyed him, how good he was. But she certainly loved experiencing it first hand. She was seeing Reed as a man in the most basic sense, not just as a friend, not just as a person she?d always admired above all others. All the things she?d ever felt for him were colliding in an interesting, if confusing way. She trusted Reed, she always had, but believing that he wanted her sexually was a pretty abstract notion for her. It was almost as hard to believe as him telling her that other men wanted her. Or that the women in the community admired her. Strange...but oh, she so desperately wanted to believe. All of it. Mary knelt down on the blanket he?d spread beneath a tall sheltering oak and watched Reed with new eyes. He was gentle as always, but now in a new and different way. When he touched her, it was with a near reverence that threatened to break her heart. No one had ever treated her that way. Not the townsfolk, not even her own parents. Shaking off that thought, she looked around at the shadowed land and said, "I love it here. I always have." Reed tossed a few pillows at the top of the blanket, his big body and endearing face visible in the moonlight and starshine. "From the time we were in junior high, you?ve always loved it here. Know what I think?" She hoped he was thinking about her and what she wanted to do to him. "What?" "I think you like it here because it?s so different from your home." That was certainly true enough. While he?d been raised on a sprawling farm that showed the pride of caring for that land, she?d grown up in a crowded bungalow that was forever in need of repair. Her mother, more inclined to weep over what needed to be done than to actually do it, had claimed there was no reason to pretty up the postage stamp-sized yard when the house looked so awful. And her father hadn?t cared two
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figs whether or not the plumbing leaked or the shingles blew off the roof. Or if the town disdained their disreputable presence. Mary cared. Even before her father passed away, she?d learned how to fix what her parents wouldn?t. And in the process, she?d alienated herself from the other kids, because none of them could understand her or her strange priorities. Rather than buy a new blouse, she?d worked hard at various odd jobs to buy new tools. While they went to dances, she?d worked on plumbing. Only Reed had ever understood what had driven her. Just as he understood her curiosity now. "Take off your shirt, Reed Darlin. I want to look at you." The night air was balmy and warm and Reed did as she asked without hesitation. "You too," he suggested roughly. Mary shook her head. "If I do, you?ll probably get distracted and I won?t get to do what I want." "What is it you want, honey?" "To touch you. To make you feel the same way you make me feel." His eyes were a dark glitter in the night, watching her, calculating. Finally, he nodded. "All right. But I will get my turn." "We?ll see." Crawling on her knees, Mary moved over his thighs with her back to him. "Let me get these boots off you." Reed braced himself with his hands behind him and lifted one foot. "I like having your sweet behind right there, Mary. I like it a lot." She grinned at him over her shoulder and managed to get his first boot pulled off. "I had no idea you were such a hound dog. When did you...you know. Have your first sexual thought about me?" "Ever since you got breasts." Mary laughed out loud, and almost landed on her face when the other boot slid free. "That was what?" she asked, "when I was about 13?" Reed?s hand slid up the outside of her thigh, making her gasp and go still. "Yeah," he growled. "About that." Moving before his fingers could make her forget her intent, Mary turned around to face him. She shoved him flat, then leaned over him until their noses almost touched. "You can?t tell me, Reed Darlin, that you?ve been thinking about me since I was a snot-nosed kid." His big hand cupped her cheek. "I have. And you were never snot-nosed. Ornery, yes, and pig-headed, but never ? " Mary plopped down on his abdomen, making him grunt. "Bull." "It?s true." He caught her hips and held her still. "All my adolescent fantasies were over you, sweets. You kept me awake more nights than you?ll ever know. But after awhile I managed to convince myself that we were best at being friends. And that?s true. You?re the finest person I know, and I?d die rather than give you up. I recently figured out, though, that I want more than just friendship."
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His thumbs rubbed her waist, gently, convincingly. There was no apology in his tone when he admitted, "I want everything." "Oh, Reed." He said the most wonderful things. It had always been that way. Whenever she was feeling low, she could count on Reed to cheer her up. He either distracted her, or teased her, or talked with her until she could put things into perspective. When she?d wanted to fix up her family home, he?d helped teach her how to do plumbing, and he and his father had taught her some carpentry. She?d worked the farm with him on occasion, and even helped his mother remodel the family room. She?d always cherished her time with him and his parents. Reed had learned the handyman tools out of the necessity for keeping an old farmhouse in showcase form, but he had no real interest in the work, not the way Mary did. He much preferred running the diner and made no apologies to anyone for it. After her father had died, he?d held her hand through the funeral, then baked her the absolute best peach cobbler she?d ever tasted. That night, when her mother insisted on being alone, shutting out her only daughter, Reed had held Mary while she cried. No one else had ever seen her cry. Choked now with emotion, Mary leaned down and kissed him lightly. "What would I do without you?" Reed tucked her hair behind her ears and with absolute conviction, said, "whatever needed to be done." His faith in her was staggering. When he tried to bring her back for another kiss, Mary leaned away. "You say you want everything." Her fingers trailed over his cheek, down his throat to his chest. "Well so do I. And right now, I want to touch you." She scooted back to sit near his knees and looked him over from his abdomen to the top of his head. Reed growled. "When you say things like that, Mary, it makes me hot." "Good." She was certainly hot, and she relished the idea of him being in the same shape. Somehow, it seemed less risky that way. "You?re a witch." He sounded hoarse and she could feel the tension in his muscles. "Relax, Reed Darlin. And tell me if I do anything wrong." The sounds of their combined breathing mixed with the quiet night sounds of the yard: the creaking of a branch, the chirp of insects, the quiet splash of a frog in the lake. Mary spread her hands on his chest, enjoying the feel of crisp hair, hot skin, and solid muscle. "I love how hairy you are." He sucked in a breath and held it. "And how strong. And how caring." She leaned down to kiss his collarbone, the hard rise of a pectoral muscle, one small brown nipple. "I can?t believe this." She couldn?t either. Nothing had ever felt so right as being with Reed this way. "Shhh," she told him. The sound he made was both humor and lust. "I always knew you were bossy, but I only suspected the kinky part." Her tongue glided over his nipple, earning her more gasps and the additional straining of his large frame. "Oh babe ? "
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Nuzzling her face into the dark hair covering his chest, she inhaled, then had to admit, "you smell good enough to eat." Her own body throbbed with sharp awareness, with need. Reed?s hands, against her orders, tangled in her hair. He cradled her head, guiding her mouth over his flesh while murmuring what sounded like encouragement ? and prayers. Inspired, Mary stroked him all over, from his rock-hard shoulders and taut abdomen, to his straining thighs ? and then in-between. Reed?s hips lurched, his fingers tightened. "Mary," he said, his voice shaking, "I?m on a hair-trigger here, babe. This isn?t wise ? " Mary felt the length of him with wonder. "You?re so big." Reed jerked away from her. His chest heaved, his gasping breaths were ragged. He pulled her down beside him and squeezed her close, his face in her throat, his body trembling. Seeing him like this, knowing she was the cause, excited her unbearably. Mary crooned to him, kissing his shoulder lightly and rubbing her hands over his broad back. Somewhere off in the distance a dog howled. Above them, an owl took flight. Mary, overwhelmed with so many new feelings, shaken with new awareness, finally admitted that she was madly, irrevocably, insanely in love. It made sense; she?d always loved Reed, but she?d thought that love was only friendship. She?d never dreamed that he might want more from her so she hadn?t even allowed herself to admit to her own dreams. Now she had no choice because he?d made her keenly aware of things that she?d always believed were out of her reach. He wanted to make love to her, she knew that. She wanted it too. But would it be enough when she wanted Reed forever, when she wanted home and hearth and the happy-ever-after? Maybe, she thought, feeling the press of his warm mouth on her throat, tonight would be the best she?d ever get. Tonight would be all he could offer. She?d be a fool not to take what she could get... "I?m sorry." Reed loosened his death grip on Mary, struggling to regain his lost control. She was his; every amazing, enterprising, teasing little unique inch of her. "You almost sent me over the edge." She tipped her head back to smile up at him. "Another first." Reed managed to dredge up a laugh to cover his raging lust. He had to hold himself back from lunging at Mary and making love to her on a scratchy picnic blanket. He had to remember that he wanted Mary for much more than a one-night stand. "I love seeing your face when you?re excited," she said. She leveraged herself up to one elbow and smoothed her fingertips over his cheekbone, his temple, the bridge of his nose. "You are so beautiful." "I?m a man," Reed said, scoffing at her description. "Men aren?t beautiful." "You, Reed Darlin, are the most beautiful person I?ve ever known, inside and out."
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Her words touched his soul. Reed closed the scant inch separating them and kissed her gently on the mouth. Her lips trembled on a sighing breath. In a husky whisper that barely penetrated the humid night, he said, "You?re the beautiful one. Will you let me touch you?" "Yes." His heart punched into his ribs, then fell to his stomach when she added, "But not right now. Right now, I?m just enjoying how nice it is to be held by you with all the beautiful stars overhead and the air so sweet." Reed thought about that. Mary had never had much cuddling. Even when she?d been a little girl, her parents had been self-absorbed. It had always been Mary giving and them taking. Emotion caused his arms to tighten. He wanted, needed, to tell her how much he cared, how much he wanted her. Not just for sexual adventures, but for the intimate talk a man and woman shared. They?d always opened up to each other as friends, but this was different; for him and for her. He?d grown up knowing how much his parents adored him, while Mary had only known her parents? indifference. She?d learned to depend only on herself. Now he wanted her to depend on him, as well. He wanted her to want to be with him, every night, for the rest of her life. If he could show her how enjoyable sharing a bed would be ? not just the lovemaking, but also the talking and the sharing ? she?d be less likely to turn him down for a permanent arrangement. "You," Reed whispered into her ear, "will like the cuddling more if you get rid of these distracting clothes. I want to feel you, all of you. If holding and sleeping is what you have in mind, that?s fine with me. But I don?t want any barriers between us." He could feel her thinking, considering, and then slowly she nodded. "All right." She sat up beside him and the skimpy, teasing camisole got tossed aside. Her breasts glowed pale in the moonlight, and Reed couldn?t quite stop himself from cupping her. "Reed..." He smiled at the warning. "You are about the sweetest sight I?ve ever seen, Mary honey." He released her and sat up, too. "Lay down." "You promised." "And I always keep my promises ? for as long as you want me to. You know that. But undressing you is a particular fantasy of mine. Why not indulge me?" He felt her growing tension and was afraid he?d moved too fast. Then she said, "okay." Keeping his gaze off her naked chest was nearly impossible, but he forced himself. He flicked her small sandals off, putting them in the grass beside the blankets before rolling her onto her stomach. "Let me get this zipper." Mary crossed her arms under her head and giggled. "Go easy. My behind is sore from that horse ride yesterday." Reed paused. "Is that so?" He looked down at her upturned derrière and grinned. Mary was in such great shape, the thought that she might have overused a few muscles hadn?t occurred to him. In one quick tug, he pulled her skirt down her legs. She yelped, but subsided and hid her face in her arms when he pulled off her panties, too. "Damn," he said, his voice sounding strangled, "you look fine, Mary, honey." Her folded arms muffled her teasing words. "You sure are a sweet talker."
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Reed straddled her slim thighs and spread both hands over her cheeks, rubbing gently. "I?ll make you feel better," he explained, ready to use any excuse to touch her. "A naked massage." She groaned in blissful surrender. "Who?d have ever thought?" About every guy alive, Reed thought to himself, while he concentrated on keeping his hands impersonal, or at least as impersonal as they could be while filled with a sexy female tush. "Just be quiet and enjoy. After I rub the soreness out, we?ll get some sleep." "This is another first, you know." "I would certainly hope so!" Because she was so obviously delighting in his touch, Reed extended the massage to her whole body. She sighed in ecstasy. "This is heaven." "Yeah." His fingers stroked deeply over her stiff muscles, around her shoulders, down her spine, working out the tension, relaxing her. With each gentle breeze, he could smell her, the light, womanly fragrance of her body as the night dew settled on her heated skin. The sight of her moon-washed nudity, the feel of her silky flesh, made him want to be inside her, want to look into her face as he took her. Her body was sleek, firm, strong. Long limbed and sexy. He leaned down and kissed one shoulder blade, then the indentation of her spine, down to the dimple on the right side of her behind. Mary sighed, shifted slightly, then sighed again. Incredulous, Reed sat back to look at her ? and realized that her breath had evened into the deep meter of sleep. A smile curled his mouth and an invisible fist squeezed his heart. She worked so hard, exhausting herself to prove ? more to herself than anyone else ? that she could do it all. She may not be as physically strong as most men, but she made up for that with sheer determination. Reed patted her bottom before reaching for the extra quilt and pulling it over her. He settled on his back beside her and eased her into his arms. The stars were accommodating tonight, a million of them lending light to show the perfection of her features, her tipped up nose, her pointed too-stubborn chin, the tiny scar above her right eyebrow that she?d gotten falling out of a tree. He visually traced every line of her face, though they were already imprinted in his memory, as much a part of him as his own features. A light breeze ruffled her pale hair and she shivered, then snuggled closer to his side, wanting his warmth. Her bare leg slid across his abdomen, her knee nudged his groin. Reed gritted his teeth and concentrated on the constellations. Mary murmured in her sleep, and her arm reached across him. Her hand landed on his mouth, her breath drifted over his nipple, her hair teased his skin. To hell with this, Reed decided, suddenly so aroused again he felt near the bursting point. A man could only take so much provocation before he totally lost his control. He looked down at Mary, ready to give in, ready to seduce her if necessary so that he could stake his claim and end his torment. Her soft snore brought him up short. He stared, disbelieving that a woman could so easily arouse him in her damn sleep! But there was no denying it, he was hard as iron, and she was out cold.
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Reed dropped his head back with a self-deprecating groan. Just as well, he decided, trying to see the upside to having a naked, desirable woman beside him while being relegated to mere sleep. He needed her to want him with the same fierceness that he felt. He wanted her to crave him, and only him ? for a lifetime. For now, he?d give her anything and everything she wanted. And when her birthday ended, he wanted Mary to want to be his wife, with no regrets, no hesitation. He wanted to hear her tell him that she loved him, not that she was just curious about sex. Her snores grew louder, making him smile despite the insistent throbbing in his body. Mary liked this sex business; even in her sleep, she sought out a sexual connection. He could use that to make her see the emotional connection as well. Being her first in every way would prove to her what a special relationship they had. The next few days would be a hell of a lot fun ? if he lived through them! Mary woke up disoriented. She sat up, the quilt sliding down her shoulders and she stared down at her naked breasts in the harsh morning sunlight. A squirrel chatted busily overhead and a bird flew from one tree to another. She looked around, and was caught by the sight of the lake. The surface glistened with an almost blinding reflection of the sun. Ducks glided forth, fish jumped. It was an astoundingly beautiful day ? and she was so in love she hurt. Reed. Just the thought of his name made her smile. She?d been silly in love with the man for the longest time and was just too dense to realize it. But now, after kissing him and touching him and lying in his arms all night, she knew what she?d been missing. She was so curious about so many things, about what a man and a woman did together, but she only wanted to share them with Reed. No other man had ever really interested her. But then no other man could have compared with Reed. "Penny for your thoughts?" Snatching up the quilt, Mary turned to see a bare-footed Reed approaching from the house, wearing only his jeans and a wicked smile, carrying a tray of coffee and cookies. Her mouth watered. "I was thinking," she lied, "how refreshing that lake looks. Remember when we used to swim there?" "I?ll never forget. You damn near drowned me when I was 12." Laughing, Mary denied that. "It wasn?t my fault you tried to be a hot dog by doing that flip and ended up hitting your head on the bottom." "Mom wouldn?t let me swim for the rest of that summer." "Which effectively kept me out of the water, as well." Mary took the cup of coffee he offered and sniffed the wonderful aroma before taking a long drink. She squinted toward Reed as he sat crossed-legged beside her. "I?ve always thought your mom was the best." Reed hesitated, then said carefully, "My mother adores you, too. She?d have had you live with us if she could." Mary wished it had been possible. Her best childhood memories were the times spent in the Darlin house. Everything that had been missing in her own home could be found there. Fondness. Teasing. Pride. Commitment. Mary looked away, feeling a swell of sadness. She loved the Darlins, and because of them, she?d always been acutely aware of what a family should be, of what her own wasn?t. "My mom is planning to remarry."
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She glanced at Reed and caught him looking at her bare shoulders. The morning sun was already hot, warming her skin, her scalp. The town would just be waking up, with the early morning buzz of traffic and shop doors opening, people coming and going. But here, it was so peaceful. Thank goodness Reed had an assistant to open the diner for him twice a week. He wouldn?t have to be in today until the late afternoon. Deliberately, Mary stretched and let the quilt slip a bit. Reed drew a long, deep breath. "Your mom should remarry. She?s too young to expect you to take care of her." That was funny; Mary made a face. "She?s always ? " "Expected it? Yeah, I know. That doesn?t make it right. And besides, it?s time you started living your own life." Although Reed threw the words out as a casual suggestion, something in his tone made her look at him, but he was busy staring at the lake. Not that she?d put too much stock in one very simple, brief observation, because when all was said and done, she was still the town oddball, and she couldn?t imagine Reed being truly interested in her. She discarded the fact of his sexual interest. She was inexperienced, not stupid. Just about any man alive, when given her proposition would have accepted. And Reed, according to the gossip and her most recent observations, was more sexual than most. Mary gave a halfhearted shrug and reached for her camisole. Casual as you please, she dropped the quilt and tugged on the shirt. She felt daring, and she wondered just how good Reed?s control really was. "I am in the process of getting on with my life. That?s what this is about," she said with feigned nonchalance, smoothed the shirt over her lap and heard Reed gulp. "This what?” "What we?ve been doing the past few days. All this experimenting and experiencing firsts?" Hoping she looked calm, cool, and collected when inside she felt giddy with her own boldness, Mary popped a cookie into her mouth. She made appropriately appreciative sounds at the taste, before adding, "Which brings to mind something I always wanted to do but was too chicken to mention." Reed froze in the act of eating his cookie, then rasped, "What would that be?" "Skinny dipping." She hoped to prolong her time with Reed any way she could. "All those times you stripped down to your shorts for us to swim, I used to imagine you naked." His brows rose. "You did?" "You betcha. You?re a heck of a good-looking guy, Reed." To Mary?s amusement, he looked equal parts pleased, surprised, and embarrassed. "Lots of manly muscles in manly places. I was always especially partial to your abdomen." Mary peered at his very sexy, muscled midsection with the downy line of dark hair and she sighed. "I?ve felt that part of you now ?" she blinked up at him " ? so I think I?d like to see the rest." "Mary," Reed warned, staring at her with hot eyes, "if you don?t mind your tongue, I?m going to lose it." "Lose what?" "My control. You?re this close ?" He held up two fingers a hairsbreadth apart, " ? to having me steal that damn quilt away from you."
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Mary sipped her coffee to hide her satisfaction. "And then what would you do?" "Kiss you. All over." The cup trembled in her grip. "All over, as in...?" Reed leaned forward and took the cup from her, setting it safely aside. He took her shoulders and slowly lowered her back to the quilt. Looming over her, he whispered, "All over, as in every place I?ve touched, every place you like to be touched." He kissed her, a gentle teasing brush of his mouth. Heat went over her in waves, as if he?d already done it. That thought brought a frown. "Exactly how many woman have gotten under your apron, anyway? You sound awfully experienced to me." "Jealous?" he teased. "More like curious. It?s occurred to me that you know your way around the female body pretty darn well." "You?re complaining about that?" Incredulous, he sat up and finished his coffee. Mary huffed. Before realizing she was in love with him, she?d never given Reed?s other women much thought. Oh sure, she often got that tight feeling in her throat and chest whenever she?d seen Reed with a date, but she?d assumed that was concern for him because the woman was never the right woman. Now she realized no woman other than herself would feel right. "I?m not complaining," she explained, "it?s just..." "Mary." Reed gave her a sensual, promising smile, then stood. "There?s never been a woman you need to be concerned about, okay?" Before she could figure out what he meant by that, or even think of a reply, he slid down the zipper on his jeans, pushed them down, then off, and turned away to head for the pond. "You coming swimming or not?" Mary watched, mesmerized by the sight of his muscled behind and tanned back as he walked away. He knew he looked good, she realized, and he?d used that against her. He?d distracted her with his naked butt, rather than answer her question about other women. Mary slipped silently off the blanket, looked around the grounds until she found several acorns, then took aim. Reed had just stopped to look at her over his shoulder when she let the first one fly. It hit his behind with near perfect precision. "Ouch! Hey..." Reed turned, saw her aiming again, and said, "Now you?re gonna get it!" He darted behind a tree so that her second missile hit the tree instead. He peeked out, looked her over from head to toes and grinned. "This ought to be fun." "What?" Mary kept her arm in the air, waiting for the right moment. From behind the tree, he said, "Being challenged by a mostly naked woman." Good grief! She was so comfortable with him, and he?d made her so annoyed, she?d almost forgotten that she wore only a camisole that didn?t cover any part of her lower body. She turned for the quilt ? and he charged her. Mary only had time to yelp. She abandoned the idea of the quilt and ran. Reed laughed behind her. "A beautiful sight, Mary, honey!"
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She knew her bottom was bouncing and she ran that much faster. But there was no place to go. Reed was taller, stronger, his long legs covering twice as much distance in less time. Then his hand snagged in her shirt and she was jerked off her feet. She screamed more from excitement than anything else. She didn?t fall. Nope, she found herself tossed over Reed?s rock-solid shoulder with a bird?s-eye view of that muscular butt she?d admired only minutes earlier. "Put me down!" "Okay." He headed for the lake and she couldn?t stop laughing. "Don?t you dare, Reed Darlin!" He fondled her bottom with a large hand, then kissed her hip. "Skinny dipping, Mary, honey. It was your idea, not mine." "But I ?" That was as far as she got before she found herself flying through the air. Seconds later, the icy cold water closed around her and she screamed again from the shock of it, swallowing a mouthful of water. The ducks protested loudly, taking flight to the shore and making a racket as she burst to the surface. Mary shoved wet hair out of her face, cursed as she whipped around, and found herself not more than a foot away from Reed. He laughed at her. The stone bottom of the pond was covered in moss and she barely held her footing as she took a swing at Reed. He ducked and she ended up turning full circle, only to find herself hauled up against his wonderfully hard, warm chest. He kissed her, and she could have sworn steam rose around them. "Don?t get riled, Mary, honey," he whispered against her lips. "If you?d rather not swim right now, I can think of other things to do." Since his erection nudged against her belly, not the least intimidated by the icy water, she could well imagine what ideas he had. In fact, she had them too. "Tell me." He caught her naked bottom and lifted her into him. "We could go to the house. Take a nice warm shower..." "A shower?" That wasn?t at all what she?d had in mind. "Mmm. And I?d make sure I got every little inch of you real clean." A shower! It was starting to sound like a heck of an idea. "And then?" "And then I?d dry you off nice and easy..." "I don?t like the sound of nice and easy. I think I?d rather hurry things along a bit." The man had far more patience in sexual matters than she did. "Ah, but I?ll make certain you enjoy every second of it, and I promise to reward you for your patience." "How?" "By kissing you from your head all the way down to your toes, and some very tasty spots in between." Mary blinked at him, her heart lodged in her throat. Her legs felt rubbery and her pulse raced so hard it was a wonder she didn?t cause waves in the water. She stepped around him. "Where are you going?" Reed asked.
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Mary kept walking. Her heart thumped so hard, she was amazed Reed couldn?t hear it. "To the house, of course. You?ve made some pretty big promises there ? now let?s see if you can keep them..." Reed held Mary?s hand tightly on the way through the house, hoping she couldn?t feel how he trembled like a schoolboy. He wanted her, had always wanted her. But it was so much more than physical, so much more than anything he?d ever dealt with before. Mary didn?t say a word, silently keeping up with his long-legged hurried stride. Even when he strode into the bathroom and turned on the water to adjust the temperature, she didn?t say a thing. But she did smile, a secret little smile of anticipation that drove Reed crazy. He pulled her into the shower, watching her, planning his every move as he sudsed up his hands. It wasn?t until the warm water washed over her and his hands stroked her breasts that she broke the silence. "Reed!" His heart thundered at the way she called his name. Damn, but he loved to hear Mary when she was excited. Her voice turned all throaty and demanding. "Relax against me, sweetheart." He had her back to his chest and the showerhead aimed at her body. His hands, slick with soap, moved from her thighs to her belly, to her breasts again. He said close to her ear, "We wasted a lot of time, you realize. I should?ve gotten you naked ages ago." Her thighs trembled and she pressed her shoulders hard against him. "You were too busy chasing other women." "I was only filling up the time until I could get to you." Mary froze for a heartbeat, obviously stunned by his words, then she moaned as he glided his hands lower, down, down, until the water sluiced over her and she was gasping. "Beautiful," he murmured. She reached back for him, her fingers digging into his hips, trying to pull him closer. He?d had just about all he could take. Reed held her upright with one arm when he bent to switch off the water. Dazed, Mary stared at him with dark, heated intensity. She licked her lips. "Are we... are we up to the kissing part? Kissing everywhere?" Reed nodded slowly and allowed his gaze to coast over her. "Everywhere." He pushed the shower curtain aside and quickly dried off. Mary stood there, waiting, her wet hair streaming over her shoulders, her body dripping, her skin rosy with excitement. Reed wrapped her in a towel, then grabbed another for her hair. He liked taking care of her, pampering her. She deserved to be treated special, and he was beyond pleased that she allowed him to do so. There was no working the tangles out of her hair, but she didn?t seem any more concerned with them than he did. He caught her hands together in one of his, holding them behind her back while he moved the fluffy towel over her body, concentrating on her breasts, using the terry cloth to rasp her nipples until she moaned. "Open your legs, Mary." Holding her gaze, he brushed the towel gently back and forth. "You like that, don?t you?" She nodded, breathed deeply. "I?d like it more if you touched me." He dropped the towel. "Like this?" Using only his fingertips, he teased her swollen flesh. Her eyes started to close as he made his touch more intimate. "Look at me, Mary."
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He wanted her to be as connected as he was. He wanted her to recognize him as her mate, not just for this, but for life. He still held her hands behind her and the position thrust her breasts out slightly. Reed bent and kissed one straining nipple. When she started to instinctively pull away from the sharp pleasure, he held her tighter and licked her, nibbled, then sucked. He could feel her contractions, feel the increasing tightness in her body. He straightened, holding himself still, not withdrawing from her yet, but also making no attempt to drive her higher. "Not yet, babe. Not yet." "Why?" Reed released her, then swept her up into his arms. "You?re an impatient little thing, you know that?" "I know you promised I?d enjoy this." "And you will." When she lifted her brow as if in challenge, he said, "The kissing, remember?" He brushed her mouth with his own on his way through the doorway and to the bed. "I can?t wait to taste you." She gripped him hard and made a strangled sound. Reed lowered her to the mattress. "Now don?t get riled with me." He could already tell she wanted to rush him, but Mary was a feast resting there in his bed where he?d always wanted her to be, and he damn well intended to take his time. "I promise I know what I doing." That had her frowning real quick. "I don?t want to think about how you learned!" "Then don?t." He lay down beside her, lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. "Think about how I?ve always wanted you, how no woman could ever measure up to you." He bit the tip of one finger and added in a rough voice, "How I?d walk through hell for you, Mary, honey." Not wanting to hear what she might say to his heartfelt declaration, Reed kissed her. His tongue slid into her mouth, stroking, teasing while his hand went back to her breasts. Lord, he could easily spend hours, maybe days, just loving Mary?s breasts. She gasped when he pulled his mouth away, then gasped again when he kissed her throat, her collarbone. "I want you to trust me, okay? Just take deep breaths and relax." "Yeah. Okay." She nudged his shoulders, getting him moving again. Reed smiled despite the lust pounding through him. Mary was in a hurry, anxious for him to get started, and he loved her all the more for her boldness. No feigned timidity for his Mary. She was curious, she was hot, and she wanted him to get on with it. He kissed each breast, taking his time there despite her not-so-subtle hints and obvious impatience. He also spent several pleasant minutes kissing her flat belly and her adorable navel. She was strung so tight, even her toes were curled. Finally he dipped lower, then using his fingers, stroked her deeply. Mary moaned and stiffened. "I love when you do that." "I can tell." Carefully, gauging her response, he explored her. Her hips lifted against him. He let her feel his breath first, then his gentle nuzzling, and before she could really prepare for it, the bold lash of his tongue. "Oh my, oh my," she repeated over and over again. He would have grinned at her words if he hadn?t been nearly incoherent with need. He was gentle, wanting to bring her slowly to her climax. She moaned, her hips twisting. He locked his arms around her hips and held her steady while he took his fill, while he indulged every wild fantasy he?d ever concocted about her.
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Reed felt so full, so ready to burst that he hurt. But he wouldn?t have stopped, wouldn?t have cheated Mary no matter what. He wanted to devastate her, wanted her to remember this and him for the rest of her life. He wanted her to accept him on every level. Mary kept arching against him, the hungry, raw sounds she made urging him on and finally it was too much for him. He found her most sensitive flesh and drew softly on her, treating her to acute, nearly overwhelming sensations. And with a wild cry, she climaxed. He felt the trembling of her body. It went on and on and he knew, not only wouldn?t she forget, but neither would he. She was better than any fantasy. She was his. When Mary finally quieted, Reed pressed one last, soft lingering kiss on her flesh and moved up beside her. Her mouth was lax, her lips open as she breathed deeply, tempting him. He bent and kissed her. Her heavy, deep brown eyes barely opened. Her gaze was slumberous, soft. Reed kissed her again, harder this time, cupping her jaw and thrusting his tongue in so that she tasted herself, so that she understood his possession. Mary gave a small, startled sound of surprise, and lifted limp hands to his shoulders. "You?re mine," he said, sounding savage when he didn?t mean to. Her eyes opened a little wider, staring. Reed knew he had to get a grip or he?d have her fighting him for no reason at all. Mary didn?t take orders well and never had. She tended to buck any type of authority. If he wanted her to marry him ? and he did ? then he needed to ask her with all of the fanfare she deserved. That would require a modicum of normal intelligence, but until he sated his own needs, he wouldn?t be able to think at all, much less intelligently. He shoved himself up to sit at the side of the bed and jerked open the nightstand drawer. Hesitantly, Mary asked, "What are you doing?" "Getting a condom." He turned back to her with the condom in his hand. "I?m staking a claim." Mary looked from his face to the small foil packet. An impish grin spread across her face. "Well! It?s about damn time, Reed Darlin!" And then she had hold of him and was pulling him back into the bed and all Reed could do was give her her way... "This is what I wanted all along," Mary told him, watching Reed approach the bed. This whole sex business was far more exciting than anyone had let on. She?d heard women talking about fireworks and explosions ? but with Reed, it was so much more. It was...emotional. She loved how he made her feel, both in her body and in her heart. He made her feel special. That was actually nothing new, but now it was so much more intense. Loving Reed, and being in love with him, were two very different things. "I don?t want to hurt you," he whispered as he moved between her thighs. "You?ll tell me if any of this is uncomfortable. I?ll try to go slow ?" "You talk too much." Mary wrapped her legs around his waist and lifted against him. "And you?re a terrible tease. Do you want me to beg?"
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"No." He groaned. "Not necessary, believe me." His broad, beautiful shoulders glistened with sweat as he slowly, so very slowly, pushed himself inside her. Mary groaned, too, not with pain but with incredible pleasure. "More." A growled laugh and two seconds later, Reed gave her what she wanted. She felt the pressure building as he pushed deeper and deeper, felt the stretching of her inner muscles, but she also felt Reed, solid and powerful over her. Her friend, and now her lover. His scent was especially strong right now, hitting her on a basic level, making her want to drink him up. And the tenderness in his eyes... "I love you," she whispered, then bit her lip in shock. She hadn?t meant to say such a thing! She wasn?t like other women, wasn?t seduced by circumstances into losing control of her tongue. She didn?t want him to feel pressured or uncomfortable by her excess of emotion. "I..." His eyes flared with incredible heat and his body grew rigid. "You can?t take it back," he rasped, then pushed completely into her with a harsh groan. Mary held on tight as he found a deep rhythm, accelerating it until she couldn?t catch her breath, couldn?t keep from crying out. Without meaning to, she dug her fingertips into his shoulders. When Reed shouted, holding her so tightly she felt a part of him, she melted. Oh, she didn?t see fireworks, but she felt the explosion in every limb, in every fingertip. And especially in her heart. "I can?t move," Reed said some minutes later. Mary tightened her arms around his back. "Then don?t." It was all she could do to keep from crying, and she had no idea why. But Reed evidently heard something in her voice, because he lifted his head and forced her to meet his gaze, even when she tried to duck her head against his chest. "Mary?" She swallowed hard and felt like a ninny when one tear escaped to roll down her cheek. She was not a weepy person. Her parents had neglected her but she hadn?t cried. The town had frowned at her and she?d hid her hurt deep. But now, after receiving such incredible pleasure, she felt her emotions spilling over. It was such a dumb, female thing to let happen. Another tear joined the first. Reed bent forward and very tenderly kissed it away. "Are you all right?" he asked. Mary nodded. "Yes. In fact, I?m wonderful. You?re wonderful." She sniffed, then offered him a watery smile. "Thank you." Reed didn?t answer. He continued to watch her, his gaze probing as if he could see into her mind, as if he knew her heart was breaking. He rested his cheek on her belly. In a whisper, he said, "I?ve always thought about this." Feeling very uncertain of herself, Mary smoothed his dark hair. "About what?" "Being with you this way." He sat up and smiled at her. "I have some things for you. I meant to dole them out little by little, but I?ve been... distracted." Taken off guard by his new enthusiasm, she turned to her side to face him. "What do you have for me?" He went to the closet and brought back several packages, handing her the largest box first. "Open it." Mary laughed as she sat up and cradled the box on her lap. No one else had remembered her birthday, not even her mother. In fact, her mother was so excited about the prospect of remarrying, she barely remembered that she had a daughter.
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Carefully, she opened the box and pulled out the bright yellow hard hat, decorated with daisies. Biting back a grin, she stuck it on her head and asked, "How does it look?" "Almost as cute as you." Reed?s hand on her knee tightened. "It makes me horny to see you in your hard hat." He startled the smile right off her face. "It does?" Reed slowly nodded, then handed her the next package. "I just recently decided to give you this one." The present was around five by seven inches and flat. Mary tore the silver paper away, then felt her heart melt when she saw the photo of Reed and his horse, Biscuit. He looked incredibly handsome without a shirt, holding a curry brush in his hand. "My dad took that a long time ago. I was going to tell you to put it by your bed, just to remember me by, but now I figure it might have new meaning." Mary pressed the photo against her breast. "It does." She laughed self-consciously as another silly tear went down her cheek. "And if I keep it by my bed, I?ll likely never get any sleep." Reed drew a deep breath. He still held one package, the smallest one and the most ornately wrapped. "Thing is," he told her, "I don?t even want you to put it by your bed anymore." "You don?t?" "I want to put it by my bed." Mary?s mouth opened, but he put one finger to her lips. "Because that?s where you should stay." Dumbfounded, Mary could only stare at him. His last gift fell to the floor when he grabbed her shoulders and pressed her flat, then came over the top of her, pinning her down with his weight. "Marry me." Her heart lurched and her eyes widened. "Marriage?" "Why the hell not?" He shouted the words, then shook his head and ran a hand roughly through his hair. "Damn it, I meant to do this real nice. On one knee, with flowers, the whole bit." He met her flustered gaze with a glare. "But it doesn?t change anything. You want me. You even said you love me." So, Mary thought. That?s what this was all about. Sadness welled up to choke her, but she squelched it. She loved Reed far too much to let him be noble. "Reed, you don?t really want to marry me. What would everyone say?" "I don?t give a good damn what anyone says! Besides, anyone smart would say I was a lucky bastard for getting you." She shook her head. "If I hadn?t come to you with this crazy plan to get pleasured, you never would have ?" She gasped when he gently shook her. "It was not a crazy plan! And I would have, anyway. I?d decided to marry you long before you made me that offer." Skeptical, Mary watched him while trying to decide what to believe. She loved him; it was possible she?d always loved him, even if she was only now getting around to admitting it. But Reed was only person she?d ever had in her life that she could feel that way about. It was just the opposite for Reed. He?d had very supportive, caring parents, the respect of the whole town, and half the single women after him. Why would he want to tie himself to her?
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Reed took one look at her face and heaved a sigh. Counting off on his fingers with measured impatience, he said, "You?re beautiful and sexy. And smart. And independent. And funny." He paused to say, "You do make me laugh, sweetheart. And I love playing with you, like with the acorns today." Then, with fingers once again lifted, "And you?re strong, and unique. And determined. Did I say intelligent?" Mary covered her face with her hands, laughing in spite of herself. "You?re nuts! And yes, you already said I was smart. It?s the same thing." "And I love you." Her hands dropped away. She stared at him helplessly. "Mary, I don?t want anyone else." His gaze searched her face, intent and determined. "I?d be miserable with any other woman." She drew a deep breath, feeling some of the restriction in her lungs ease away. "Oh." "Haven?t the past couple of days shown you how good we are together, in every way? Didn?t you feel how special it is when we make love?" Mary swallowed hard and nodded, almost afraid to believe this was happening. "Here, I have a last gift for you." Reed reached off the side of the bed, groped around on the floor until he found what he was after, then handed her the small box. "If you don?t like it, we can pick out another." Her heartbeat unsteady, her palms starting to sweat, Mary peeled away the tissue paper and opened the velvet box. Inside was an oval diamond surrounded by small rubies. This time the tears came in earnest and there was no way she could hold them back. "Oh my." She blinked hard and sniffled. "Isn?t it... isn?t it just the most beautiful thing you?ve ever seen!" Reed, grinning like a fool, used his thumbs to brush away her tears. "You?re the most beautiful thing I?ve ever seen. Now please, honey, say yes." She wanted to, she was ready to, but first... "I told you I love you." Reed nodded. "Happiest moment of my life." "You really do love me, too?" He kissed her silly. "I love you, Mary, honey. I always have. I want you to be my wife, to help me make this house a home again, and to become a permanent part of my family. I want to go riding with you and skinny dipping and I want to make love to you every night for the rest of our lives. Sometimes under the stars, sometimes in this bed. Hell, sometimes even on the kitchen table." His hands shook as he gently cradled her face. "Now tell me yes." Laughing and crying, Mary threw her arms around him and shouted, "Yes!" "Hallelujah!" Pressing her face to his neck, Mary whispered, "This the happiest birthday I?ve ever had." "From now on, I?m going to make all your days happy." Mary believed him.
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Marriage Overboard by Christine Rimmer Gwen and Rafe's marriage is on the rocks ? until a storm at sea during a cruise sweeps them overboard.? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. No, Gwen Bravo McMillan thought when she heard that sound. No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't?But out on deck, the howling wind and lashing rain had died down just enough that she could hear it, faintly, from beyond the arch that separated the sleeping area from the sitting room. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Gwen glanced at the clock by the side of the bed. Past two. She'd waited half the night for him to finish up. And at last, he'd said he was done. She'd hurried off to slip into something more seductive ? and he'd gone right back to work. With a frustrated moan, Gwen sank to the edge of the wide stateroom bed. Why? she wondered. Why did he even bother to come with me on this cruise? The answer to that, of course, was simple. He knew if he didn't, she would never have forgiven him. With a put-upon sigh, Gwen fell back across the bed and stared up at the skylight overhead. Rain pounded the glass and the dark sky above was thick with swirling, angry clouds. Their second night out of Grand Bahama and a storm had come up. A squall, the captain had called it. Nothing to get too concerned about. They'd be through it come morning, on to sparkling seas, bright sunshine, pristine islands, and beaches where the sand was white and soft as sifted flour. There were 47 cabins on the 257-foot freighter-passenger ship, Annabelle Lee. The ship made a 13-day island-hopping run, along the Caribbean archipelago, from the Bahamas to Trinidad and back again. Because of her relatively small size and shallow draft, the Annabelle Lee could take them places megaliners could never go. They would be anchoring off deserted beaches, docking in quaint harbors, cozying up to any number of exotic ports of call. Gwen had seen to it that she and Rafe had the best accommodations on board: the Admiral's Suite, a teakpaneled hideaway with all the comforts of home ? and more. Including aquariums filled with darting bright neons and regal angelfish. And a marble sink, with hot tub to match in the bath. They even had their own private covered deck area. The whole point was to get away, just the two of them, without the kids they both adored, without the distractions of day-to-day life ? meaning mainly, without Andrews and McMillan Architectural Design, the firm in which her talented, driven husband of eight years was now a full, and very dedicated, partner. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Ah, there it was again. The sound she knew so well. Beneath the slapping of the agitated waves, the driving beat of the rain, and the howling of the wind, under the softer glug-glug-glug of the aquarium aerators, she could hear it?. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. The sound of her husband at work on his laptop.
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Oh, yes. For their special, once-in-a-lifetime romantic getaway, Rafe had made sure to bring along his laptop, his phone and his briefcase. He'd spent the flight to Miami and a good portion of their one night there on the phone. On the commuter flight to Grand Bahama, the phone wasn't an option. And it didn't work aboard the Annabelle Lee, either. But his laptop hadn't let him down. And since they boarded the ship yesterday evening, you'd think he was married to it instead of her. Rafe McMillan didn't have time for rum swizzles or lounging on deck beneath the golden Caribbean sun. He had no time to pay attention to his wife. Oh, no. He was too busy staring transfixed at a computer screen, swept away by the preliminary drawings for his latest masterpiece. The rain pounded harder. The wind wailed a little louder. And Gwen popped up to a sitting position. She wasn't giving up for the night, not yet. She was dressed for seduction in a turquoise satin-and-lace peekaboo teddy, and she was determined to give getting her husband's attention one more try. Gwen stood. The floor shifted beneath her feet just a little as another good-size wave hit the Annabelle Lee. But it wasn't bad. Nothing to worry about. Hadn't the captain said so? Gwen marched through the teak-framed doorway to the sitting area of the cabin. Her husband had parked himself on the sofa, with his laptop open on the low coffee table before him. He wore a look of rapt concentration on the face that still, after eight years of marriage, could cause a flutter in her midsection and a distinct desire to sigh. Damn him. His big shoulders were slightly hunched, his whole body focused, dark eyes narrowed, trained on the screen in front of him. He'd rested one fine, long-fingered hand against his sculpted mouth, while with the other hand, he pointed and clicked away with the laptop's mouse. Gwen positioned herself in front of one of the aquariums, directly in his line of vision ? if he would only look up. Which he didn't. "Hmm," he said, still transfixed by the screen. And then he put both of those long-fingered hands on the keyboard. Click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Gwen gritted her teeth, struck what she hoped was a provocative pose ? and cleared her throat. Twice. The second cough did it. He looked up. Yes! He was looking at her. He was seeing her. She knew that kind of look, knew exactly what that warm gleam in his eyes meant. He said her name, low, "Gwen..." Intimately. Tenderly. With the promise of all manner of delights to come. She smiled, her heart lifting. And then he frowned. "Give me five minutes?" And then those beautiful eyes were focused, rapt, on the laptop screen again. It was too much. Gwen sucked in a long breath. "I need some fresh air." She hissed the words at him.
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Rafe waved an absentminded hand. "Just a few minutes, sweetheart, I promise?" Gwen was not going to start yelling at him. Yelling was not constructive and she would not descend to it. She spun on her heel, marched back to the sleeping area and tugged on an old pink T-shirt, a pair of white Capri pants and some tennis shoes. Then she snatched a bright pink rain slicker from a peg and headed for the door. *** Rafe didn't look up when she stomped by him. He hardly noticed when she slammed the door. But several minutes later, when he'd worked out the problem that had been nagging him, it all registered. Gwen had left. And she had left mad. He raked his hair against his skull with both spread hands and slumped back into the couch cushions, muttering an expletive under his breath. Damn it, he'd told her he only needed five more minutes. Right then, the ship rocked. A big wave must have hit. The Annabelle Lee was equipped with stabilizers. Still, it had rocked.... Rafe sat up straight and strained to listen. The storm had picked up, and picked up good. Now he really paid attention. It sounded like there was a typhoon out there.? Rafe jumped to his feet and went looking for his wife. He had to lean ? and lean hard ? against the door that opened onto the portside deck, the damn wind was blowing so hard against it. When he finally got out there, he saw no one. Just drenched decks and wailing wind, water flying everywhere, a dark, angry sky, and a tossing, endless black sea. He struggled forward, fighting the wet slap and slash of the wind, furious at Gwen for being so foolish ? holding on to that fury, because, if he let go of it, he just might find himself terrified for her.He shouted her name, "Gwen!" once and then once again, but the wind only threw the word back in his face. Then, at last, he saw her. Amidships. At the starboard rail, holding on tight, a drenched figure in a bright pink rain slicker. He was less than 10 feet from her. He shouted her name again ? but she didn't turn. And as the wind ripped the call from his mouth, a huge wave reared up to portside. It slapped the deck, sending water flying everywhere. So much damn water? In the deluge, he lost sight of the figure in the pink slicker. And when the wave at last receded, the figure at the starboard rail was gone. Chapter Two Staggering and lurching, buffeted by the angry wind and soaked to the skin, Rafe fought his way to the rail where Gwen had vanished. He grabbed on and stared out over the roiling waves. There! He saw her. A splash of pink ? the back of her slicker.
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The back. Damn. Not good. The wave must have knocked her out. He couldn't see her face. She was making no attempt to keep her head above water. He sent a desperate glance fore and aft. Still no one in sight. Captain and crew had battened down the hatches. Everyone on board was riding this thing out. Everyone but Rafe and his wife ? his drowning wife? The bridge was behind and two levels above him. Someone up there might spot a man or woman at the bow, but not likely amidships, not unless they were looking for someone. The damn angle just wasn't right. They wouldn't see what had happened ? and he had no time to make them see. The pink slicker kept moving away from the ship, the waves lifting and slapping it farther and farther out to starboard. Rafe worked his way down the rail, hand over hand, until he reached the nearest life ring. He tossed it over. It sailed out, a big donut on a string, and landed several yards away from the bobbing pink jacket that was his wife. Life vests! The words exploded in his brain. There were several lockers full of them ? placed all around the ship. He grappled his way farther down the rail until he reached one of the lockers. He slipped the latch, flung it open and yanked out two vests. He got into one with a swiftness that surprised him. Then he whirled, brushing water out of his eyes, thinking, Life raft? But no. The pink slicker was moving up and down in the waves steadily off to starboard. No damn time to get to a raft and try to launch it single-handedly. He yanked out several more vests and tossed them overboard, just in case?he wasn't sure. In case he lost the one he was holding in his hand, he supposed. He stole a few precious more seconds to yank off his shoes ? better without them. They'd only weigh him down. And then he climbed up on the rail and went over into the high, angry waves. He hit the water ? not cold, thank God ? and bobbed right up, the life vest doing its job. But the waves kept washing over him, interfering with his vision. It took what seemed like a century to locate the pink slicker ? and the life ring. The two were much farther apart than before. And he was way too far from Gwen. If he wanted to reach her, he'd better start swimming. He struck out for her, in a good, strong crawl, arm over arm, thinking that it had been too long since those summers on the Colorado River with his father, too long since he'd pushed himself to swim hard and fast. He had to let go of the second life vest almost immediately. He needed both arms free to have any chance at all of cutting through the waves and making it to her. Rafe swam. He swam for all he was worth. Though he knew consciously that the currents were with him, it didn't feel that way at all. To him the damn waves seemed alive, battling him, pushing at him as if they would deliberately keep him from reaching Gwen. He swallowed saltwater, hacked and spat it out. And he kept on swimming. The waves went on fighting him. But he fought back, only slowing now and then to swipe his eyes clear and make sure the pink slicker was still within sight. It took too long. But then, at last, the waves gave him a boost, one lifting him high and slapping him down in a trough about ten feet from his bobbing limp goal. He struck out hard, each stroke a prayer, and finally he touched wet, pink slicker. He grabbed ? and he had a handful of the jacket.
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She was definitely not moving ? at least, not of her own accord. She floated completely at the mercy of the beating waves.? He yanked, felt wet, clinging strands. Her hair. He buried his fingers in it and he yanked again, hoping to get a yelp from her, an angry shout that he was hurting her. But she said nothing. And the waves kept on beating at them. He dragged her in by that hair of hers ? hair that, when dry, was some wonderful, light-streaked color between blond and brown, hair that he'd always loved to slip his fingers through.? Rafe closed his eyes, a hard, sweet shaft of emotion piercing him. He let out a loud, animal yowl ? her face and the faces of their children, Matty and Kenyon, flashing, one and then the other, in swift succession on the screen of his mind. No. She was not gone yet. He had a hold of her, and he wasn't letting go. They were not done yet. They would get through this and get home. He dragged her in, turning her, so her face was up. And she coughed. A damn miracle! She coughed! "That's right, that's right, sweetheart?" He held her under the arms, facing him, keeping her head up as much as he could manage it, protecting her mouth and nose somewhat from the splash of the waves. She coughed harder. He held on, held her up. He could feel her chest expanding. Contracting in spasms. She vomited. He'd never in his life been so glad to see someone throw up. "Rafe?" she croaked. "Rafe?" "Yeah, sweetheart, it's me. Breathe. All right?" She groaned, but she was definitely breathing, sucking in air and letting it out. She was okay ? for the moment. In his side vision, he spotted a bright splash of orange. One of the life vests. It bobbed and bounced right up to them. He only had to reach out and grab it, which he did. "Here?" "Ugh." She coughed again, hard and deep. "Life jacket. Get it on." He helped her into it, pushing one limp arm in the arm hole, pulling it across her shoulders and guiding her other arm where it belonged, then finally strapping her into it. He hadn't realized the effort it was taking to hold her upright until she had her own jacket on and he didn't have to do it anymore. A feeling of relief shimmered through him. Which was ridiculous. The storm still beat down on them, the waves still tossed them mercilessly. But they were together. And they were both alive. And now they needed to get to the damn life ring. If they could reach it and hold on, the storm would end ? sometime. Passengers would come on deck. They'd be found, and pulled aboard. Eventually.
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"Gwennie, are you okay?" She looked too pale, but she managed a hard, determined nod. "We have to swim ? back to the ship. I threw a life ring over..." She understood, nodded again. But then her gaze moved. She was looking beyond him, back toward the Annabelle Lee. And something happened in her face, an expression that sent a deep chill down into his bones. Pure despair. He turned, seeking the ship. It looked at least a mile away. "Gwen," he shouted over the wind and the pounding of the waves. "We have to try." She nodded. Her lips moved. He read her words rather than heard them. "I know." Chapter Three They set out to swim for the ship. The sea actually seemed to have calmed a little. Maybe he was delusional, beset by desperate wishful thinking. Still, Rafe could almost swear that the rain had slacked off. But Gwen had been knocked out, had swallowed way too much seawater ? and she wasn't as strong as he was in the first place. He had to hang back for her. He didn't dare get too far ahead. He could lose her again. The treacherous, still-angry waves could carry her away. He'd have to go after her. And he might not manage to catch up with her a second time. At first, she swam right along with him, giving her all to keep up. But then she started to lag. He adjusted his pace to stay with her. And within minutes, she slowed to a stop ? or as much of a stop as was possible in the tossing waves. He turned back to her. And knew instantly what she had in that mind of hers. "No," he shouted. "Come on." She shook her head. "Go. Please. My fault. You go?" He sent one more glance at the ship. It looked farther away than ever. Too far ? and he knew it. The damn currents were definitely working against them. Reality hit him like a hard blow to the gut. They weren't going to make it back to the ship ? not together, anyway. And as far as Rafe was concerned, together was the only option. So what were their chances, then? His mind spun away from the true odds ? and back around to the real point: survival. Right now, they only had to do one thing: stay alive. Ride out the rest of the storm. Somehow.
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They only had to live one hour, one minute, one breath at a time, until the waters calmed. To stay afloat and keep breathing: that was the goal. If they lived till daylight, they should have at least a small chance of reaching land or being picked up by a boat. The Annabelle Lee had been scheduled to weigh anchor off Conception Island, Bahamas, sometime in the early morning ? which meant they were still in the Bahamas. Or at least, they should be, assuming the ship hadn't been driven too far off course by the storm. What had Gwen read to him when she was trying to interest him in this damn trip? That there were some 700 islands in the Bahamas, not to mention over 2,000 islets and cays. Surely some small spot of dry land was out there, not too far away, just waiting for them. He reached for his wife. She pushed at him, yelled, "No! Go!" And then surrendered to a fit of coughing. He got her by the shoulders, shouted her name. She finished coughing. She refrained from doing more yelling and shoving. But her face remained set. Mutinous. "I can't make it, either," he said loud and hard. She opened her mouth to argue that point. He didn't even let her get started. "We stick together. We help each other stay afloat. It's the only way." She stared at him. He saw guilt and self-hatred in her eyes. "Gwen! Stop it. We survive. Together. Understand?" For a suspended moment, she went on glaring at him, her lower lip quivering slightly. And then her face crumpled. She muttered "Matts. Kenny?" so low he only knew what she said because he was thinking the same thing. "They're safe," he said firmly. They had left them with her brother, Zach, on his ranch, the Rising Sun, in Wyoming. Zach had a terrific wife, Tess, two daughters, and a baby son. Zach and Tess loved each other. Together, they made a happy home. They wouldn't hesitate to take in a niece and a nephew permanently if it came to that. He told Gwen as much. "The kids will be fine. Zach will take care of them." She closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, she nodded. "All right." "Good girl." He turned her, pulled her in so the back of her vest met the front of his. He said in her ear, "Tuck your legs up. Rest." Rafe's father still ran a white-water rafting outfit in Colorado. Wolf McMillan hadn't been much of a family man, but Rafe hadn't forgotten all the lessons in survival that the old man had drilled into him. His father's words came out of his mouth. "Even in warm waters, hypothermia is possible. The body loses heat faster in water than on land. And there's a lot of heat lost through movement." Gwen put up no more arguments. She drew her legs into her chest and he brought his own legs up beneath hers. They bobbed, in a sort of upright spoon-fashion, riding the waves, up to the crests, and down into the troughs. Eventually, he looked back over his shoulder ? and saw that the Annabelle Lee was no more. She had slipped over the edge of this strange and endlessly rolling watery world.
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Time passed and the storm faded away. The waves calmed. When Rafe lifted his hand from the sea, the skin was thick, puffy, and creased, thoroughly waterlogged. Rafe had left his waterproof multifunction watch on the coffee table in their stateroom, so he couldn't have said exactly how long they'd been drifting. And what did it matter, really, how long they floated, what time it was? He did have his Swiss Army knife in his pocket, the one Wolf had given him years and years ago. He'd always carried it with him and it was with him now. If they made land on some deserted spit of sand somewhere, the knife would likely come in handy, more so than any watch. The wind had died from a howling demon to a sweet tropical breeze and the endless nighttime sea had calmed. The clouds slowly cleared, the wind chasing them on, and the stars shone brighter than the stars over the city of Philadelphia, where he and Gwen lived. He managed to pick out the pole star, following the line of it to earth ? which wasn't all that far at this latitude ? and found due north. So. They were drifting west. Was that good? Who could say? They needed that island to show up on the horizon soon. Or a boat. Coast Guard, maybe. These waters were crawling with Coast Guard boats, weren't they, tracking drug runners and such? Once or twice, something bumped his legs ? and moved on. Shark? Or something equally deadly? If so, both times, death passed them by. He felt Gwen sigh. Her head was back on his shoulder and her curled-up body drifted out a little, as if the sea were her bed and his shoulder her pillow. Her hair moved lazily around them, floating at the surface, sliding against his neck, clinging, then flowing free again. "Look," she said, "A gull?" He saw it, the beating double-boomerang shape against the sky ? which, it seemed to him, was growing lighter back the way they had come. She said, "I read somewhere that if you see a gull over the ocean, you're near land." He hated to disappoint her. "That's a myth. Birds can fly enormous distances. And they do." She sighed again. "A myth, huh?" He made a noise in the affirmative. "Oh, Rafe," she whispered. "I love you. I'm so sorry.?" He kissed her salty temple. "Don't go there. Don't beat yourself up. It'll only tire you out and get us exactly nowhere." "You shouldn't have come in after me." He chuckled. "Too late for shoulds, sweetheart. "You know what they told us when we went through the safety drills. If someone goes overboard ?" " ? throw in a life ring and inform the bridge. But by the time I got through to the damn bridge, you would have been long gone." She said nothing. But he knew her thoughts. She was blaming herself again.
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"Stop," he warned, thinking that he was certain of it ? the sky was definitely brighter in the east. He ran his hand down her arm. "Sun's rising?or it will be soon." She made a sound that might have been a laugh ? or just as likely, a sob. "It really didn't seem that bad ? the storm, I mean ? when I first got out on deck. I got over to the rail. And it got worse really fast." "It happened, Gwen. We deal with what we've got." She let out a little huff of air. "Always so pragmatic." "You have called me unromantic." "I have been a fool." He smiled. "But you are my fool.?" "Rafe?" She was treading upright. "What?" "Look." She pointed to the west. "Do you see it?" He did. It was land. Chapter Four Excitement and relief renewed Rafe?s strength. It was the same for Gwen. They started swimming once more, stroking arm over arm toward the swell of solid ground in the distance. It was farther than it looked. In too short a time, Gwen was worn out all over again. And so, to a lesser degree, was Rafe. But the current was their friend right then. In the end, they rode in on the tide, going under a few times at the breakers, but getting past them eventually. The sun had turned the whole world orange and purple behind them as they staggered together up onto the beach and collapsed alongside a high, pungent-smelling pile of sea grape. They lay there, catching their breaths, damn close to totally wasted, with few clues as to where they were ? but smiling at each other like a couple of idiots, nonetheless. "Solid ground," she whispered, grabbing a handful of wet sand and squeezing it between her pale-palmed, water-wrinkled fingers. "I didn't think I'd ever see such a thing again?" He knew they had to get up. Find shelter from the heat of the rising sun. And water, too. Was there a freshwater source here? He lifted his head, looked off toward the edge of the beach where tall coconut palms loomed. Island, islet or cay ? how big was this place? Was it inhabited? If it wasn't, they'd need to build a good signal fire. So much to find out. So much to do. And so damn worn out, both of them.
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Gwen had dark circles of exhaustion under those big eyes. He watched her wet lashes flutter down. Between one second and the next, she was sound asleep, her cheek pillowed in wet sand, her hair ropy and knotted as the pile of sea grape beside her. He shouldn't have, but he closed his eyes, too.... *** Gwen woke under protest as something shook her shoulder. "Gwen. Gwen you have to wake up now?" Rafe. He was the one shaking her, the one who wouldn't let her sleep. She made a grumbly sound and tried to push his hand away and burrow back down under the covers, which, very oddly, didn't seem to be there ? but he held on to her shoulder and kept saying her name. And there was something wrong with the bed. It felt damp and grainy. There were those missing covers ? and the sun was shining down on her, hot on her bare calves, making her feel clammy on top. She patted her own arm. A jacket. She was wearing a soggy, slick jacket? Gwen's lashes had gummed up, stuck together somehow, but she managed to force them open anyway. Her poor husband's worried face swam into focus, complete with bleary eyes and rumpled, salt-crusted hair. There was sand stuck in an oval pattern against one lean, beard-shadowed cheek. His polo shirt clung to him, crusted with salt lines, like his hair. It struck her like a blow, what had happened. Where they were. Some nameless bit of land in the middle of the Caribbean. Her whole body ached, her skin felt hot and itchy, and there was a slight throbbing above her left ear ? she had hit something, hadn't she? The rail or something, when that wave washed her right off the deck of the Annabelle Lee. She had hit something and it had knocked her out. And Rafe had been forced to jump in after her? Her face must have shown the self-loathing she felt right then, because Rafe warned, "No." And she knew he was right. Her own self-indulgence had gotten them here. She had wanted a little romance, wanted Rafe's passionate attention, wanted to be courted as he had courted her back when their love was new. Yes, that was it. For some time now, she had wanted their love to be new again. She had hungered for it, really, felt the lack of it as some black hole in the center of their marriage. And last night, she had managed to get so fed up with not getting what she wanted that she'd gone strolling the deck of a ship in a dangerous storm just to air out her anger. And so they were here ? stranded on some unknown island, safe for the moment only because of the courage, strength, and survival skills of her husband. They were here. And there was no more room for her self-indulgences. Her throat felt awful, dry, and scratchy ? and raw, too, from all the salt water she had swallowed and then coughed up. Her mouth was a hard sponge with all the moisture long sucked out of it. She swallowed, trying to draw up a little dampening saliva, and managed to croak out, "I'm okay. Really?" He gave her a smile. His lips were cracked. She put up her hand, touched his mouth and then her own ? cracked and dry, like his. "What a mess," she whispered.
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"Come on. We need to get out of the sun." She moaned a little, squinted at the wide blue sky. "What time??" "I'd say after ten, anyway." He helped her to her feet and they hobbled together, like a pair of very old people, up the beach toward the tall palms ? and beyond. When they came to a spot well shaded by the palms and some other, shorter trees, he let her sit down again, and helped her out of her life vest, then removed his own. He told her to rest there, out of the sun. "What will you do?" "Look for water." She pushed herself to her feet again, using a tree trunk for support. "I'll come with you." He shook his head. He was checking the creases and pockets of her life vest. "You're beat. Sit back down." "You don't even have shoes. It has to be dangerous for you to be walking around in the undergrowth." She still had her tennis shoes on, salt-crusted and soggy as they might be. "I'll be careful." He dropped her vest and picked up his own. "You'll get your feet cut up, and you know it. Some creature might take a bite out of you." "Can't be helped." He pawed through his own vest, then dropped it next to hers. "Look what I found." He held up two small mirrors and two identical whistles on strings. "Most life vests will include a whistle and a mirror ? for signaling potential rescuers," he announced, as if reading from a survival manual. He smiled, cracked lips and all, boyish in his pleasure, making her think of their son. "These mirrors could turn out to be priceless. And not only for flagging down rescue vehicles. It's reasonably easy to start a fire with one ? beats rubbing sticks together any day of the week." She said, "I'm not staying here while you go off alone." His dark brows drew together. "You're looking obstinate, Gwennie. Your chin is sticking out." "We'll work together." "For someone who's dead on her feet, you are way too damn determined." "I'm going with you." They looked at each other for a long time. She thought she had never loved him as much as she did at that moment ? let alone, never understood how very much he loved her. She said, tenderly, "What about the whistles?" "What about them?" "What are they good for ? I mean, now that we're out of the water?"
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"Hmm," he said. "Well, for signaling each other, at the very least. Here." He held one out to her. She took it, looping the string over her head, lifting the heavy, lank ropes of her hair to settle the string against her nape, then bringing the whistle to her mouth. Before she blew on it, she hesitated, giving him a questioning look. He shrugged. "I guess blowing it might be unwise. There could be trouble nearby, ready to jump us. Smugglers, maybe. Or somebody else up to no good." "Let's think positive," she suggested. "There could also be some nice people just waiting for a sign to come racing to our rescue." He grunted. "Fair enough. Blow." She did. The sound was loud, clear, and quite piercing. The grove of trees seemed all the more silent as the whistle died away. Rafe said, "Well, I don't see any nice people." "No smugglers, either." And right then, there was a rustle in the underbrush. Rrreow? "My God," said Rafe, as the thin gray creature emerged and began rubbing around Gwen's ankles. "It's a damn housecat." Chapter Five Gwenbent and scooped up the cat that had come to her whistle. "Well, what do you know? What are you doing here?" The cat purred and ducked under her hand, begging to be petted. Gwen obliged. "Tame," Rafe said. Gwen scratched the furry guy under his pointy little chin. "That's good, right? It means there are probably people living here, somewhere. Or at least a water source, right?" Rafe peered more closely at the cat. "Probably yes to the water source, at least. But the animal could have been abandoned here by some boat or other. It looks pretty scrawny." Gwen had to admit Rafe was right. The poor thing's ribs stuck out. He suggested, "Put him down. See if he leads us anywhere helpful." Gwen did as he instructed. The cat plunked to a sitting position at her feet and looked up at her hopefully. "Thanks a bunch, guy," muttered Rafe. Then he was looking at Gwen again. "You're sure you feel up to a little exploring?" She nodded. Firmly. "All right, then. Let's go. We don't have much in the way of gear. Might as well just take it all with us."
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It was already growing quite warm, so Gwen tied her slicker around her waist. They put their life vests back on. Rafe hung his whistle around his neck and they each took a mirror. They set off under the trees, moving directly away from the beach, along what seemed to be a trail, though who or what had made it, Gwen hadn't a clue. And she was too thirsty and too tired to waste her energy asking her survival-savvy husband how he had decided which way they would go. The skinny gray cat followed them, sometimes slipping up ahead, sometimes dropping back to take up the rear, sometimes weaving through the bushes to the right or left of the trail. Every time they came to what seemed like a fork in the trail, Rafe would gather stones and make a crude arrow on the ground, pointing back the way they had come. He explained the first time he did that that he wasn't too worried about getting back there anyway. It was east, more or less, since the sun had risen that way. They could and would get back, to build a signal fire a little later in the day. But that would take time, to gather the fuel for it. Right now, their primary goal had to be finding water. They hadn't been walking long ? maybe ten or fifteen minutes ? when they heard a buzzing sound off to the east. An airplane. Gwen's heart leapt in frantic, gleeful hope. They got out their mirrors and they stood in a clear spot, flashing the bright squares of reflecting glass, using the sun's rays to make twin signals. But it was no good. They heard the engine retreating before they ever actually even caught sight of the aircraft. Desolation made her mouth taste drier than ever as the droning hum fade away to nothing. But she was not going to show it. She closed her eyes, sucked in a long breath ? and kept her shoulders high. Rafe shook his head. "What?" she demanded. "Maybe we should have stuck near the beach. Out in the open, we have a better chance of being seen. And maybe I should have at least taken time to try hunting down enough big rocks to write help in the sand." She saw the shadows in his eyes right then. It was a huge responsibility, assuming the lead, making the decisions about what actions to take and in what order. A wrong choice could cost them their lives. Reassurance was required. "We'll be out in the open," she reminded him. "As soon as we find water." He made a wry face. "You seem pretty damn sure about this." "I am. Trust me. I know what I'm doing here." They both chuckled at that. And then Rafe put up a hand. "Listen." They stood silent, straining their ears. The gray cat sat between them, looking from one to the other and back again. "Birds," she whispered. "I hear birds. And little rustling sounds in the underbrush." Rafe had his head tipped to the side. "Wait here. I'll be right back." He turned and set off into the brush. Gwen did as she was told, trying not to think of what kinds of big snakes or angry insects might be lurking among the tangled tree roots, just waiting for the chance to sink ugly fangs or nasty pincers into her husband's poor bare feet.
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Not two minutes after he left her, he called her name. "Come on! Over here!" She ploughed into the bushes, skirted around a big outcropping of gray rock ? and saw her husband at the same time as she saw the creek that tumbled out of the side of a small, clear pool. He was kneeling beside the pool, scooping up handfuls of the crystalline water. He tasted it and he grinned. "Fresh," he said, his eyes alight. "Fresh water, Gwennie. Come on. Have a drink." Gwen did not need to be told twice. She raced for the water's edge, threw herself down on the bank and lapped the cool, wonderful water straight from the stream. Chapter Six They drank their fill. And then they swam in the little pool, wearing their clothes, rinsing the salt from them as they swam. Gwen thought she'd found heaven, floating in that pool, the silky, lovely, clear water sliding over her dry, salt-raw skin. She massaged her fingers all over her scalp, rinsing the salt away and easing the itchiness that it had caused. Keeping her head in the water, she did her best to comb out her hair with her fingers. Gwen wanted to take off her clothes, to float naked in the tiny blue pool while she waited for her things to dry. Rafe said that sounded like a great idea ? later. But right now, they needed to get back to the beach, lay their signal fire, and get a rudimentary camp set up, including getting a smaller fire started that they would tend until they were rescued. Judging by the direction of the current, he said he thought the creek would come out somewhere near the shore. That meant they might find a water source closer to where he thought they should make amp. Since they had no containers to carry water in, the closer the fresh water, the better. Now that her thirst had been slaked, Gwen realized she was starving. She told Rafe as much. And he laughed. "We'll worry about food later. The human body can go for weeks without it, in case you didn't know." She faked a look of horror. "I hope we're not going to have to wait that long to eat." He grunted. "So do I." When she rolled her eyes, he added, "Don't worry. We'll have lots of fun later, trying to crack open coconuts and seeing what kinds of crustaceans we can dig up on the beach. And anyway, from what I understand, the Bahamas get a lot of traffic. There should be planes going by all the time ? and boats. Not to mention whatever rescue efforts they mount within the next few hours when they're bound to realize that we're not in our fancy stateroom or basking on our private deck." He reached out, lifted her heavy, wet hair off her neck and put his warm hand there. Then he pulled her close. She lifted her mouth and he kissed her, the sweetest, deepest kiss. A kiss that soothed her spirit every bit as much as the clear waters of the pond had soothed the parched skin of her aching body. "We're going to be fine, Gwennie," he whispered against her parted lips. "Oh, Rafe. I know we are." They returned to the beach, which didn't take long at all, since they hadn't come that far. Rafe found the end of the creek, trickling onto the beach perhaps thirty yards north of the big pile of seaweed that marked the spot where they had washed up.
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They set to work gathering driftwood, fallen branches, dry seaweed that had trapped itself among the roots of the trees that rimmed the beach, anything that would burn. Rafe said they needed both long-burning fuels, like the driftwood, as well as leaves and green branches that would make a lot of smoke. The signal pyre would have to be set just so, in order for it to go up like a torch when it was lit. As they gathered their materials, they explored. They found a sort of one-sided cave ? a deep, wide groove in the rocks ? far enough up the shore that high tide shouldn't be a problem. That would be their campsite. Rafe built their campfire there, under the overhang of the rocks where it would be protected, digging out a bowl shape in the sand, placing a rim of rocks around the edges and laying the fire within. Then he went out into the sun, laid another tiny kindling fire, and used his mirror to focus the sun's heat until the kindling caught. He got a nice, long stick going and carried it back to light their campfire. They laid the signal fire several yards from their camp, high up on the beach, where the tide wouldn't get to it and where they could reach it quickly from camp when the time came to light it. Once all the collecting of fuel and preparing of fires had been done, they gathered stones ? enough to do what he had suggested earlier: Write Help across the beach in the sand. By the time the stone SOS was done, the sun hung low over the back of their island, turning the neverending sky to swirling magenta fire. The gray cat ? Gwen had taken to calling him Stewie, after Stew Cat in the famous Theodore Taylor young adult classic, The Cay ? stayed near them for most of the day, resting in the shade of the overhang at their campsite, coming out to explore the pyre of the signal fire when they finally had it all ready to light. Once all the rest was done, Rafe whittled a hardwood stick to a sharp point and showed her how to break open coconut shells with it. He did several of them. One or two had fresh, sweet milk inside, which they drank, but the meat was tough and flavorless. Rafe said they could use the shells as containers. They wouldn't carry a lot, but they were better than nothing. "Wait here," he commanded, rather curtly, she thought, after they'd cracked open a dozen or so of the coconuts. So she waited. Rafe disappeared into the trees. She hoped he knew what he was doing. But she was tired and still quite hungry, in spite of the coconut milk she had drunk. And she didn't feel up to chasing after him and demanding to be allowed to help him do whatever he thought just had to be taken care of right then. He was gone for way too long. At least an hour passed, maybe more. She cleaned the tough meat from the coconut shells and tended the fire, staring into it, glad for its cheery warmth against her face, thinking of her children, telling herself that she would see them again ? and soon. Eventually, Stewie appeared from out of the rocks behind her. He was carrying something in his jaws. As he drew near, she saw it was a very small, very dead bat. He set it down before her and sat back, looking up at her. "Thank you, but no. You go right ahead," she said, a part of her thinking that she shouldn't be so hasty to refuse such an offering. But she was far from starving. And they'd certainly find better food than tough coconuts tomorrow. She didn't have to claim a skinny cat's even skinnier bat. Stewie picked up his prize and turned away from her. He carried it a few feet away, then stretched out in the sand to enjoy his meal. Gwen looked into the dancing flames of the fire, wondering how long it had been now since Rafe had left, hoping he was okay, wishing he would come back.
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And as if her longing had conjured him, he appeared. She spotted him walking toward her along the beach. He was carrying something. She got up to greet him. When he came into the circle of the firelight, she saw he had a big dead lizard ? and an even bigger dead snake. "Could this be?dinner?" He gave her a crooked smile, then got out his old Swiss Army knife and began cleaning the kill. ** Marriage Overboard! They cooked the meat and ate their fill. There was even enough for Stewie to join in. The meat was wonderful, light and tasty. Gwen had never realized how delicious a dead reptile could be. Rafe told her he'd measured their island, been to both ends and across to the other side. He estimated it was about two miles east to west, maybe two and a half north to south. As far as he could tell, they were alone here. Once they'd finished the meal, they strolled along the beach to the creek to wash and to drink some more of that delicious, delightful fresh water. Then they returned to camp. They stretched out by the fire with their lifejackets for pillows and they looked at the stars and promised each other they would be home soon. Rafe's beard was rough against her cheeks when he kissed her. She didn't care about the roughness. She felt the soft wetness beyond his lips and that was so good. She opened her mouth to his seeking tongue and eagerly abetted him as he undressed her, urging him to undress, too. The turquoise teddy was wrinkled and salt-streaked. He told her it was beautiful. They made love there, by the fire, in the sand. And when he came into her, she looked up into his dark eyes and she thought again, in a shattered sort of way, of what a fool she had been, in wanting their love to be new again, wanting it to be green and untried and fresh. No. Their love was not new. Their love was strong. And deep. And so true. Their love endured. As they would endure, here, on this mound of sandy land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Endure to make it home, to hold their children, to pamper and coddle their children's children, to grow old. Together. She said his name on a glad cry. He gave hers back to her. They went over the edge of the world as one. *** Gwen woke in the morning feeling stiff and cranky. She was absolutely certain she had sand in every crack and crevice of her body ? and Rafe was gone. He appeared a few moments later with a fish he had caught with an improvised spear made out of a long stick whittled sharp at the end. His feet were hurting. He tried to pretend they didn't bother him, but she could see the cuts and scrapes for herself, could recognize the careful way he walked, so different from his usual confident, smooth stride. He assured her that in a few days the skin would toughen up ? not that it would matter, since he had a feeling they would be rescued very soon now.
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"They know we're missing by now, probably have known since yesterday noon or so at the latest. They'll be searching. And now, we'll be ready to give them a nice, smoky fire to find us by." They cleaned the fish, cooked it and ate it, sharing with Stewie, of course. Gwen teased the cat that he'd grow positively fat if he didn't watch out. Once the food was eaten and the fire tended, Rafe suggested they go to the pool, to clean up a bit. Gwen hesitated. Considering the condition of his feet, she really didn't think he ought to be tramping around any more than he absolutely had to. He waved a hand at her. "Come on, it's not that far. And a swim will do us both good." She gave in and went with him. The walk, after all, was a short one and the cool water would be soothing to their various aches and pains. But they never made it. At the edge of the trees, Rafe let out a sharp cry and jumped back. Gwen looked down in time to see something slim, dark and sinuous slither off into the bushes along the trail. Chapter Seven "Snakebite," Rafe growled through gritted teeth, his face contorted with pain. He dropped to the sand to examine the two tiny puncture wounds on the arch of his left foot. "Hurts like hell," he muttered, then he shot her a glance. "Did you see the snake?" She blinked, her mind suddenly a blank, refusing to take in what had just happened. "Gwen. Did you see it?" She nodded. "I?yes. For a split second." "What did it look like?" "I don't know?not very big. Dark gray?almost black." He was studying those little wounds again. Already, the skin around them looked puffy, and darker, like the beginnings of a bruise. "Some kind of viper, I would guess." "Viper?" she repeated, sounding stupid, feeling terrified. "Something?poisonous, you mean?" He shot her a glance. "Rattlesnakes are a kind of viper, though not the only kind. The bite of a viper type of snake is painful, and they leave twin puncture wounds, just like this." "Oh," she said. She was thinking how calm he seemed, how she wanted to scream. But she didn't scream. "What?" Her throat closed up. She swallowed, to make it open. "What do we do?" He slipped his little red knife from his pocket, flipped out a blade and made four swift slashes, little xs over each of the wounds. "Don't try this at home," he advised dryly. Blood welled up and he squeezed at the flesh around the cuts, encouraging the flow. "Something for a tourniquet?" he said, wincing against the pain. "My shirt?" "Great. I'll need a strip long enough to tie around my leg."
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She yanked off her shirt and tore at it with her teeth, getting the rip going, and then tearing about a four-inch strip in a circle around the hem, stopping to tear again with her teeth at each seam. "How's this?" "Perfect." She handed the torn strip to him and then tugged the remains of the shirt back on over her head. He tied the pink fabric around his leg good and tight. "Slows down the movement of the venom," he explained, then managed a wry grin and qualified, "If properly applied." She stared at him, and then said what she was thinking. "You're so calm?"<./I> "Not that many people actually die of snakebites, Gwen," he said. "This is only one bite, most likely no great amount of venom was injected. It's not near any vital organs and it didn't hit an artery. And I'm not a child. Children are more likely to die of snakebites than adults because of their smaller size. Chances are, I'm going to get sore and sick and I'll run a fever. But I'll get through it." "Is that?a promise?" "Damn right it is." She wondered if he really meant that, if he was as sure he would survive this as he wanted her to think. But then she decided if he wasn't so sure, she didn't want to know anyway. He told her that the less he moved, the better ? slowing the circulation of the poison was the most important thing he could do. That meant staying calm ? and staying still. She helped to make him as comfortable as possible, right there at the top of the beach, under the shade of the palm trees. She went and got their life vests for him to rest against and he said that the downward slope of the beach was just right. He had his feet toward the waves, below the level of his heart. "Water?" she asked. "Are you thirsty?" He admitted that he was. She hurried off to grab some coconut shells and fill them with water. He drank two shell's full and then he loosened the tourniquet and retied it again, explaining that he wanted to slow down circulation, not cut it off completely. He patted the sand beside him. She sat. The wound had swelled more, was turning an ugly purple. She tried not to look at it. He said, "Don't forget the campfire. We have to keep it going, so we'll have flame when we need it to light the signal pyre." The pyre was about 15 feet away, between them and the little half cave where they'd made their camp, all ready and waiting for the sound of a plane overhead ? or the sight of a boat out there in the blue, blue waves. "I checked it when I went to get the coconut shells," she told him. "It's low, but with a good layer of coals. I'll put more wood on it in a little while." "Good." Stewie appeared from somewhere in the bushes behind them. He meowed a greeting, then he stretched out in the shade a few feet from where they sat.
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For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The sounds around them rose up louder, the songs of gulls wheeling overhead and the rhythmic whoosh and slap of the waves against the shore. Beneath it all was the low, never-ending sigh of the sea wind. "It is beautiful here, Gwennie," he said, very softly. She looked at him, and she made herself smile. "Well, this trip didn't exactly turn out the way I had it planned." "You can't deny it's been?exciting." "You're right. It has been. A thrill a minute. I think I've had enough excitement, though. I think I'd like to go home. See my children. Sleep in my own bed?" "With me, I hope?" He raised a dark brow at her. "Always. You know that. Always with you." He smiled then, a smile both tender and a little bit sad. "Gwennie?" She touched his arm. "What?" "I want you to know that I have learned form this. Seeing you the night of the storm, face down in the ocean?" He shook his head. "You keep blaming yourself, but the blame's not really yours. I did drive you to it." "But I shouldn't have ?" "Shh. Listen. I'm trying to tell you I know I was wrong, that night and a lot of nights before that. I'm trying to tell you that if we make it through this ?" She put her hand against his chapped, dry mouth. "Not if. When." He nodded, caught her fingers and kissed them. "When we make it through this, I'll put my work aside when I say that I will. I'll make time for just the two of us and for our family, time where Andrews and McMillan Architectural Design will not be allowed to interfere." He looked deep in her eyes then. "I love you, Gwen. More than my life." "Oh, Rafe. I know it. And I love you." *** There was nothing much Rafe could do but rest, remain calm ? and wait out his own reaction to the snake's venom. Every once in a while, he would untie the tourniquet, then tie it back up again. And then, after what he told her he thought was about an hour, he took it off completely. It had done what good it could do. vShe got up now and then, to tend the campfire, to bring more water, but mostly she stuck by his side. They talked a little, and they were quiet together, watching the waves tumble up to the shore and slide back again, leaving the white sand glittering wet under the tropical sun. She knew he was suffering long before he let it show ? suffering both from the pain of the bite and from increasing nausea. He grew feverish. She took the discarded improvised tourniquet, wet it with cool water and bathed his sweating face with it.
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By then, he'd lain back against the sand, moaning and tossing, unable to get comfortable. She tried to get him to stay still at first, remembering what he'd said about slowing down circulation. But she couldn't really keep him still, and anyway, the poison was fully in his system by then. Moving around probably wouldn't hurt him any more than he was already hurt. He threw up. She held his head and bathed his face some more, urged him to drink a little ? and then had to hold his head while he threw up again. She managed to coax him along the beach a ways to a stretch of clean sand. And that was all she could do ? hold him, dribble little sips of water between his chapped lips, clean him up when his poor stomach turned itself inside out. And constantly remind herself that he was going to pull through this, he was going to be all right, that few people died from snakebites, Rafe had said so. Rafe had promised. He had promised he would be all right? .Rafe lay, his head in her lap, moaning softly, and the ball of the sun had risen almost to the center of the sky when she heard it: the droning hum of an airplane engine somewhere out over the endless sea. Chapter Eight Yes! Gwen could see it. A plane ? a small one, far out over the water, but coming this way. The drone of the engine was faint, but getting louder. As gently as she could, Gwen eased Rafe?s head to the pillow of his life vest. Then she leapt to her feet and took off at a run for the campsite. A number of dry kindling sticks waited where Rafe had left them, ready to set afire and carry as matches out to the pyre. She grabbed several, stuck them into the red-hot coals, her mind instructing in a singsong chant, Be calm, take your time, do it right, make it count?. The sticks caught. In the sky, the plane seemed to be growing larger, the engine sound deepening, getting louder?. Gwen forced herself to keep the sticks in the coals for precious seconds longer, to be certain they'd burned hot enough that they would not go out as she carried them to the pyre. Finally, praying they would stay lit, she pulled them free and started off. Overhead, the plane droned louder. Gwen raced along the beach, carrying the flaming sticks, one hand out in front as a not-too-effective shield against the wind. The flames didn't last ? but the ends were still glowing, still red-hot. Gwen reached the pyre, shoved the sticks in at the base. The plane, at that moment, was directly overhead. Surely the pilot could see her, see the pile of wood and brush, see the word HELP in stones across the sand. She knew it was probably pointless to yell and jump about, but somehow just couldn't stop herself. She shouted, waved her arms, screamed, "Down here! Help! Down here!" She even stuck her whistle in her mouth and blew for all she was worth. The plane seemed to dip toward her. And then it swung upward again ? and flew on above the palm trees, disappearing from sight. "No!" she screamed. "No, you come back here! You come back here right now!"
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All at once, the embers at the ends of her kindling sticks caught. With a roaring rush, the pyre burst into hot, burning life. Gwen stood where she was and watched it, watched the flames lick and rear high, watched smoke pour up into the clear blue sky, listened for the plane to circle back around. But she waited in vain. The sound of it had faded to nothing. She had failed, hadn't been quick enough, hadn't been ready enough. She cast a glance at Rafe, so still now in the sand, and all she wanted was for it to be her lying there, sick and helpless, for him to be standing here now by the burning pyre they had created together, standing here, well and whole and certain of what he should do next. Hopelessness was a living, hurtful force inside her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. And then a voice in her head, a voice that sounded very much like her husband's voice, commanded her, "No." It was his voice she heard, but her own that actually said the word aloud. She could not afford this. No self-indulgence. She was the one standing, the one in charge now. And she would not, under any circumstances, surrender to her own despair. The fire was burning, the smoke was going up, thick and dark. The pilot would see it. He would circle back around. And right then, as she was telling herself that it was going to happen ? it did. She heard the hum of the engine coming on again, roaring up louder ? coming back. Coming back! And then, out over the wide sea, she saw it: a small boat, a rescue boat. It was speeding straight for them, a white wake churning out in a stream behind. Overhead, the plane dipped, rose up, circled and came back. The boat raced toward the beach. The miracle had happened. They were rescued. They would be saved. She ran to her husband and found him unconscious. She took his head in her lap and she whispered, "Oh Rafe. You'll be all right now. I promise you. You'll be okay. Help has come? *** Six months later? The sleek gray cat followed at her heels as Gwen checked on her children. She eased open the door to Kenny's room first, tiptoed across the floor and then pulled up his covers, tucking them around him carefully, not wanting to wake him. Then she moved on to Matty's room, repeating the same motions, smiling to herself when her mouth popped open in a big, loud yawn. The cat was waiting at the door for her when she emerged into the hall again. He accompanied her down the stairs to the office room at the front of the house. Rafe was sitting at his computer, lost in the images of some new project he was working on. She smiled to herself and started to back silently out the door.
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But he must have heard her. He turned in his chair and held out his hand. She went to him. He laid his palm on her round belly. "How's the island baby?" "The island baby is just fine." She bent down and kissed him, tasting the sweetness beyond his lips, thinking how much she loved him, thinking that it was the very best kind of love: a love good for a lifetime. love that endured.
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Manhunting Masquerade by Joanne Rock Chloe has made a vow to be more daring, and a masked ball gives her the perfect opportunity to pursue her dream man, sexy Eric Matteo! How far will she go?
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| Chapter One "Read ?em and weep, honey." The fortune-teller edged one finger beneath a giant swami?s hat to itch her forehead. "You drew the Knight of Cups, the Queen of Swords, and the Knight of Swords. Then when you wanted more clarification, you drew the Lovers card. How much more clear could your reading be?" "Much." Chloe Leclaire glared at the spurious fortune-teller ? actually Glenda, a clerk from Chloe?s law firm ? across the light of a flickering silver candle and a table draped in red silk and tarot cards. "Having been nominated most dull coed in my college sorority two years straight, I can honestly say this racy love triangle prediction makes no sense." Chloe had attended tonight?s Silk Masquerade, a Heart Society fund-raiser, in order to support her largest client and to fulfill a pact she?d made with her girlfriends. Said girlfriends, Lexi and Amanda, were currently disguised as Cleopatra and Marie Antoinette and were oohing and aahing over the outrageously romantic reading the phony fortune-teller insisted on providing for her. "I haven?t seen one marginally eligible bachelor tonight, ladies," Chloe returned. Heaven knew she?d searched the crowd for Eric Matteo ? a sexy financier and the one bachelor who?d been lurking through her dreams lately ? but he was nowhere to be seen in the glittering crowd. "I hardly think I?m going to end up like the queen here and have to choose between two dashing knights." Amanda leaned forward to tug on the shoulder of Chloe?s red lace gown. "But isn?t it sort of serendipitous that you came dressed as the Queen of Hearts tonight? Maybe Glenda is right." "Let me get this straight." Cleopatra/Lexi leaned over the fat crystal ball perched on the table and stabbed the Knight of Cups with one long red talon. "This guy is the romantic idealist." She walked her fingers across the table to the Knight of Swords. "And this guy represents turbulence and change?" Glenda sighed. "You?re taking it a bit literally, but yes, I guess so." Chloe pushed away from the table, having heard enough about romance and love tonight to last her 10 lifetimes. "Okay, girlfriends. The nonstop talk of romance has migraine written all over it. There?s not a snowball?s chance in Maui that a stick-in-the-mud former debutante like me will be torn between two guys tonight. I vote we get to work fulfilling the pact we made and settle for finding one guy apiece tonight." Marie Antoinette rose. "It?s your 25th birthday, Chloe. You call the shots tonight." She extended her pinky finger toward her friends. "I?m still in, if you guys are." Cleopatra flashed a grin, her kohl-rimmed eyes alight with mischief. "Are you kidding? Any time we make a pact to be wild and daring, I?ll be first in line to meet the challenge." She locked pinkies with Amanda, then turned expectantly to Chloe. "Come on, Squire Leclaire. Pony up the promise." Chloe recalled the pact they?d made over one too many margaritas at lunch. They?d promised to each wrangle a man at the Silk Masquerade, to use the opportunity of anonymity to live dangerously, flirt recklessly, and proposition aggressively.
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Normally, Chloe would never be so bold anywhere outside her law office or a courtroom. But turning 25 had made her realize she needed to start taking more chances, to start having some fun before she ended up as reserved and stiff-necked as the rest of her blue-blooded family. She pulled her red silk mask over her eyes and proffered a pinky. "Let the manhunting begin." She?d find a man to fraternize with tonight if it killed her ? even if it wasn?t Eric. Besides, the man might be hot enough to infiltrate her dreams on a regular basis, but his bottom-line, corporate-shark mentality would no doubt make them incompatible for anything more than a brief, highsizzle encounter. "I?ve never lost a case ? or a bet ? yet."They clenched pinkies and let out a girlie-whoop that went back to shared boarding school days. Chloe ducked out of the fortune-teller?s tent and back into the masquerade ball, Glenda?s voice shouting in her wake, "Be prepared for turbulence and change!" Chloe pretended not to hear.If she was going to follow through on her vow to be more daring, she didn?t want to think about the shock waves that might result in the aftermath. Cleopatra and Marie Antoinette parted ways ? dividing the room to conquer their men and leaving the Heart Queen to her own devices. Chloe absorbed the mix of perfumes in the crowded hotel ballroom. Pink festoons blanketed the walls while a garland of red silk hearts covered everything else, including the light fixtures, the freestanding bars and the waitresses? short skirts. A high school prom in nightmarish proportions, thankfully peopled by men who normally dressed up in Armani as opposed to rented rayon tuxedos. Not that Chloe had seen a great deal of her own prom, considering she?d spent half the night in the bathroom crying her eyes out over the one guy she?d ever been willing to risk her heart with. Now, Chloe?s gaze raked over every possible male candidate under 50. Make that under 45. She crossed off the first 15 she spied within no more than 10 seconds, her lawyer?s mind accustomed to making quick assessments and sizing up people at a glance. Then, realizing she?d cross off the whole room in another half an hour, Chloe closed her eyes and told herself to slow down. She took slow, deep breaths and reopened. Only to find Eric Matteo in her line of vision. The Roman gladiator at two o?clock would give Russell Crowe a run for his money. Eric stood in bronzeplated glory not 20 feet from her, his mask nowhere to be seen. Would he recognize her in her costume tonight? Maybe her mask would allow her the anonymity to finally have that brief, sizzling encounter she?d been dreaming about without having to confront their past courtroom clashes, or the fact that Eric represented so much about her blue-blooded world she was running from. Thanks to her masquerade, she?d show him a different side of herself tonight. Something a little more daring. Starting right now. Chapter Two Chloe tossed her curls over one shoulder and closed the distance between her and Eric Matteo. She didn't dare give herself time to think about what she was going to say, or what she was going to do. With the assurance of her hidden identity, she would just say the first thing that came to mind when she reached him. Shoving between a caped vampire and a gloved Michael Jackson impersonator, Chloe glided to a halt in front of her gladiator soon-to-be-lover and gave her full red skirts a little shake ? just enough of a flounce to be sure the slit in the hem provided a glimpse of the bright red garters she'd invested in for tonight.
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"I found a balcony two doors down that would make a perfect trysting place," she blurted, her words chasing one another in a rather less-than-sultry rush. "Care to join me?" Eric stared at her for a long moment, his intense brown eyes absorbing every last inch of her red dress. "Depends if we're really trysting or if you're just warming up for another round of Crucify the Witness, I guess. What exactly did you have in mind, Chloe?" Horrified to be identified within the first 10 seconds of her covert mission, Chloe nearly teetered right off her two and half inch heels. "How did you know it was me?" Eric stepped closer to slide one finger beneath her red, feathered mask and peeled it away from her face. "I'd know those red curls and that flowery scent anywhere." The warmth of his touch tripped through her until she barely managed to suppress a sensual shiver. She frowned, more than a little embarrassed to be recognized so early in the game. "But I always wear my hair up in court." "That whole time you were cross-examining me right into a deadlock jury, I was thinking about what it would look like if I took it down. " He reached to touch one springy lock. "I have a pretty good imagination." A rush of heat stole through her at his words. She'd nearly lost that case because it had been so difficult to concentrate while cross-examining him. What woman could think straight with a man ? especially this man ? looking at her like that? Well, that wasn't a concern anymore, thanks to a closed case and a new day. Or night, as it were. Before she could figure out how to extricate herself from an exceedingly awkward situation, Eric flashed her a wicked grin. "Now, what were you saying about a tryst?" Chloe bit her lip, knowing it would be far more daring ? and difficult ? to proposition him since her cover had been blown. Did she have the nerve? She looked around the room for a glimpse of Lexi or Amanda, anything to give her the final nudge to take that last adventurous step. Instead of finding a thumbs-up from Cleopatra, however, Chloe's eyes locked on the only other man she'd ever propositioned in her life. The man who'd turned her down, despite her most heartfelt attempts at seduction. Austin Radley. Chloe hadn't confronted Austin since that night he'd roared out of her life on his father's Harley. The night of the prom that had broken her high school heart, while Austin had pursued his own dreams at an out-of-state college. Yet here was Austin, the man who'd been the focus of her every girlhood dream, homing in on her through the glittering Manhattan party as surely as if he'd been tracking her with radar. And damned if he wasn't dressed as a medieval knight ? complete with shining armor. Or did they call that chain mail? Either way, he wore some sort of silvery metal shirt over his very impressive chest, and a sword strapped to his side. "Chloe?" Austin's voice mingled with Eric's as they said her name in unison. The fortune-teller's warnings floated back to her. Who would have believed she, Chloe Leclaire - smart-girlin-the-front-row-turned-boring-attorney - would be standing between the two most gorgeous men in the room tonight? She couldn't play vamp to Eric with Austin looking on. She needed to settle this, here and now. Turning to Eric, she asked, "Would you excuse me?"
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He nodded, but his dark brown eyes were alert. "I'm not going anywhere." Chloe turned to greet Austin, who didn't waste any time with talk, preferring to kiss her full on the lips instead. His mouth brushed hers, warm and inviting. Seven years after the last time he'd kissed her, and he still teased her senses with the same cologne. She couldn't deny the leap of her pulse at his touch. Or ignore the heat of Eric's watchful gaze. "It's been a long time," Austin whispered in her ear before pulling away. His green eyes raked over her dress and he smiled the killer grin ? complete with dimple ? she'd never forgotten. "You look gorgeous." "You don't look so bad yourself." Determined to play it cool until she at least figured out his intent, Chloe took an extra step back to give herself a little more breathing room. Thinking room. Sure she wanted to be daring tonight, but it looked like she could be in for some difficult choices. She wanted to be sure her ability to reason wasn't compromised by a stray whiff of men's cologne. "What are you doing here?" Austin snagged her hand and kissed the palm. "Isn't it obvious? I'm here for you." Chapter Three How long had Chloe waited for Austin to say those words? Far too long, in her opinion. Besides, she had a red-hot gladiator waiting 10 feet away and ready to engage in sensual battle with her tonight. "I?m sorry, Austin." She withdrew her hand from his, but not without a little trepidation. Was she doing the right thing walking away from a lighthearted man who knew how to have fun for a too-intense corporate shark? "It?s nice to see you again, but I?m with the gladiator." For tonight, anyway. Austin?s surprise showed for all of two seconds before he masked it behind that sexy dimple. "Who can argue with the Queen of Hearts?" He offered her a knightly bow and then disappeared into the throng, straight toward a luscious brunette in a green Victorian riding habit. She didn?t have a moment to miss him. She sensed Eric?s presence behind her, the heat of his bronzecovered chest at her back, before he opened his mouth to speak. "Call me crazy." She turned to face him, his broad shoulders blocking the rest of the party from her gaze. She took one of the champagne glasses from his hands. "But I thought I?d at least see if there was something to all this tryst talk we were having before I get swept off by any medieval knights." "Smart woman." He clinked her glass with his. "Here?s to the lure of Rome." Then he leaned closer to whisper in her ear. "And the promise of trysts yet to come." *** Eric watched Chloe bite her lip between sips of her champagne. But he was also close enough to feel the shiver of anticipation shimmy through her at his whispered words. No way could he allow any time for buyer?s remorse to set in. She?d chosen him tonight, and he would do everything he could to make damn sure she never regretted it for a minute. He plucked her drink from her hand and set both their glasses on a passing waiter?s tray. "Of course, I wouldn?t dream of jumping the gun and taking you up on that tryst just yet." He put both hands on her waist
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and steered her toward the dance floor, trying his best not to get totally distracted by the soft curve of her willowy body, the gentle sway of her satin-covered hips. "First, we dance." They nudged past a scantily clad Wonder Woman and a saucy tavern wench who blew him kisses behind Chloe?s back. A French maid and a sexy cowgirl winked his way, too, but all Eric could think about was the delicious redhead he finally had his hands on. As they hit the floor, he spun her into his arms. She landed flush against his chest just as a sultry Latin ballad began. Eric thanked Fate for his continued streak of good luck. Chloe?s breasts swelled above the low scoop of her red gown to brush against him as they danced. He anchored her to him with one arm and guided her around the floor with his other. The flowery scent that had teased him throughout their shared days in court now enticed him closer and closer. He settled for grazing her temple with his cheek so that he could talk while they moved together. "I came here tonight hoping to see you again." She peered up at him, cheeks surprisingly pink for a woman who made a name for herself cutting witnesses down to size on the stand. "How did you know I would be here?" "I looked up your client list online and noticed the Heart Society among others. I already had the invitation for the Silk Masquerade by then and figured an aggressive young lawyer like you would attend to support her client." He edged his fingers lower on her waist to graze her hip. She followed him effortlessly around the floor, making him wonder how well matched they?d be off the floor. "You think I?m aggressive?" Suspicious blue eyes seemed to weigh his words. "You talked your witnesses into so many circles you ended up deadlocking a case that should have been a clear-cut decision against you. Hell, yes, I think you?re aggressive." She smiled, her red lips curling into a satisfied grin he hoped to see in other ? more private ? situations. "You?re still mad about that?" He hadn?t meant to talk business. He?d intended to talk about her. All his life he had been driven in his career, determined to prove himself to a family certain he?d fail. But Chloe made him want to forget all about that, made him want to focus solely on doing anything in his power to make sure she left this shindig on his arm tonight. But maybe if they didn?t address their shared history they?d never get around to making new ? more pleasurable ? memories. "You mounted a case for the Broadway Historical Society to preserve a building that has no business in downtown Manhattan anymore, effectively barring an ambitious cultural center from finding a great home downtown. I wouldn?t say I?m mad so much as I am frustrated with the outcome of that case. But that doesn?t have anything to do with us right now." As the music ended, Eric twirled her away from him in a flurry of red satin skirts and then reeled her back into him. Tightly. "I?d rather focus on some otherways you could be aggressive tonight." Chapter Four The heat of Eric's body surged right through Chloe's satin gown. If that molten temperature was any indication of how much he wanted her, tonight was going to be every bit as sizzling as Chloe had imagined. She stood motionless in his arms, caught up in the hum of desire between them even though the rest of the dancers on the floor had already shifted gears into an updated tango rhythm. "Do you care to clarify exactly what you mean by that, Mr. Matteo? In what ways would you like to see me be more aggressive?"
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His cheek brushed her temple as he leaned closer. "Ever the lawyer, aren't you, Chloe?" He trailed his hand possessively over the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip. "In this case, I'd be happy to spell it out for you, counsel." He steered her toward the edge of the dance floor, into the shadows and away from the swirl of bright costumes and sequined skirts. "I don't want you to hide behind that cool lady-lawyer mask of yours any longer." He cupped her cheek with one warm palm. "And while you're at it, I also want an uncensored view of those red garters you're wearing, but I don't want to have to hunt for them under all those skirts." His thigh grazed hers as they spoke, making her all too aware of the gossamer cling of her silky stockings. "I want you to show them to me. Slowly." Her breath caught in her throat and refused to return to normal. Her heart rhumbaed, salsaed, and slowgrooved in her chest, igniting an erratic flow of blood to her body parts. Her fingers chilled while her most secret places burned. "Don't tell me I rendered the lady lawyer speechless." He ran his fingers down her shoulders until he held both her hands. That's exactly what he'd done. Chloe had never been at a loss for what to say, but she couldn't seem to distance herself from the tide of sensual hunger long enough to use her brain for thinking purposes. She simply stared at his mouth and thought how much easier it would be to kiss him.... Until Cleopatra-Lexi appeared over Eric's shoulder and cleared her throat. Loudly. Marie Antoinette-Amanda materialized at her side, looking surprisingly compassionate given her "Let them eat cake" notoriety. "Chloe, honey, we just wanted to check up on you to make sure you're okay." Did barely breathing count as okay? Chloe managed a nod as Eric backed up a step. Fortunately, her gladiator was thinking more clearly. He offered his hand to Cleopatra, the more obvious watchdog of the pair. "I'm Eric." The Queen of Eqypt raised a skeptical eyebrow but shook his hand. "I'm Lexi Mansfield ? your worst nightmare if you're bothering my girlfriend." Chloe found her tongue before Lexi got the wrong idea. "Actually, we were just making plans for the rest of the evening." She shot a meaningful look in Eric's direction. "Will you excuse us for a minute?" Eric walked his fingers down her spine, an intimate gesture her friends couldn't see behind her back but that Chloe felt in every tingling nerve ending. "I've been meaning to have my fortune told tonight anyway. I'll meet you back here in five." He leaned close to kiss her cheek. As he brushed his lips across her skin, he whispered, "I'm dying to know if this is my lucky night." While she was still reeling from that comment and Eric disappeared into the crowd, Lexi and Amanda crowded her, hungry for details. "We couldn't leave without checking on you, girlfriend." Lexi steered Chloe toward the ladies' room, the ageold safe territory for discussing men. As they plowed through the smoke-filled women's lounge toward the mirror, Amanda draped an arm around Chloe's waist. "He's gorgeous, Chloe, but I'd bet my Prada purse that he's the one who represents turbulence and change like the fortune-teller said. Are you sure you're ready for that?" Chloe fluffed her red curls as she stared back at her reflection. "We made a pact, didn't we?"
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Lexi sighed as she withdrew a pick from her evening bag and worked on Chloe's hair for her. Chloe's family had never so much as kissed their daughter in public, so Chloe had always appreciated the warmth of her girlfriends' affection ? right down to their fussing over her like Cinderella before a big date. "We made a pact to force us to be more adventurous, but that doesn't mean we aren't going to be careful," Lexi admonished. "How well do you know this guy?" Now there was a loaded question. "Well enough to know he's not my type, but that he'd never hurt me. We battled it out in court last month and we were both ? intrigued. He's too rich, too blue-blooded, and too much like the rest of the bottom-line oriented men in my family's world. Since there's no way I could fall for a guy like that, he's the perfect candidate for my night of daring. Right?" Amanda and Lexi exchanged glances over Chloe's head. A gesture she hadn't missed, thanks to the mirror. "That doesn't mean he's going to bring turbulence and change to my life." Although the little voice in her head argued he'd already turned her world upside down, intrigued her as much with that sharp mind of his as with those glorious pecs. But she didn't want to listen to any little voice that would talk her out of this. She wanted her night of daring, damn it! "He's just going to spice things up a bit." She shook off Lexi's primping and straightened her gown. "You guys might not want to follow through on the pact for adventure, but I do." After making sure Chloe's cell phone was fully charged and turned on, Lexi and Amanda said their goodnights. Neither of them had found Mr. Right at the Silk Masquerade, but Chloe had at least found Mr. Right Now. And for tonight, that was enough. No sooner had she emerged from the ladies' room into the club than her gladiator appeared ? bronzed and gorgeous, his heated gaze meant only for her. "Ready?" he asked her. A world of meaning communicated to her through that one word. Was she ever. She wanted to take this adventure to the extreme tonight. "Yes. But I don't want anything so trite as a 'my place or yours' line. I don't think I can wait that long to show you that little item you mentioned wanting to see." His gaze dipped to ease over her breasts, belly, and finally ? her thighs. "Honey, I wouldn't dream of asking you anything so trite. I'm willing to wait about five minutes to see those garters, so why don't you find the quickest place I can get you alone." Chapter Five Eric didn't have to wait long for the lady lawyer to take action. "Maybe I'm a bit of an over-planner, but I booked a room upstairs so I didn't have to take a cab across town dressed as the Heart Queen today," Chloe confided as she tugged him out of the hotel's ballroom and away from the masquerading revelers. "That might afford us a little privacy." "Perfect." It would also afford him an opportunity he'd been dreaming about ever since his first whiff of that flowery perfume of hers. "And let the record show I commend both your practical nature and your excellent planning, Chloe." Eric didn't waste any time hitting the "up" button for the nearest elevator. He just hoped she'd still be interested in him Monday morning when she learned about his proposed project for the lot next to the historical building she'd fought so hard to protect in court last month. Chances were her historical society client wouldn't be thrilled with Eric's new idea for moderately priced housing units. But even with Chloe heading up their side, they didn't have a legal leg to stand on to stop Eric from the venture. As they rode past 10 floors on the way to her suite, Eric assured himself Chloe would appreciate that their personal lives didn't need to be affected by their dealings in court. Wouldn't she? Chloe pushed her way into the darkened suite and turned to beckon him inside. Eric's breath caught in his throat at her sultry smile, her intentional flick of her red skirt to flash him a little more leg. No way would he
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risk tonight by talking business. Right now, all he only wanted to touch, taste, and breathe was Chloe Leclaire. *** "Come on in." Chloe wondered if that breathy voice really belonged to her. The light from the hallway spilled into the room behind the silhouette of her Roman gladiator. As impressive as Eric Matteo looked with the bronze trappings of his costume accentuating his every muscle, Chloe longed to pull off all his clothes, to run her finger over hot flesh instead of cool metal. He stepped over the threshold into the darkness, an act that seemed to commit her to the turbulence and change the fortune-teller had predicted. "Can we turn a light on?" Eric asked as the heavy hotel door closed behind him. "Not yet." There was a certain comfort in the dark. Besides, her room looked like a tornado had hit it since she'd gotten dressed for the party here earlier. "In a minute." Right now, she just wanted his hands on her ? the sooner the better. She could scarcely remember the last time a man had touched her ? too long ago, too unmemorable. If the heat breaking out over all her skin was any indication, she would remember tonight ? and Eric ? for a very long time. She only hoped she'd be able to peel herself and her red garters away from him in the morning. "Second thoughts?" he whispered, backing her toward the bed as he loomed closer and closer still. "Definitely not." She wanted this man more than she'd wanted to win any court case, which was saying a lot for a woman who'd worked nonstop to carve out her slot in a prestigious law firm. No matter what Chloe had told her girlfriends, she was attracted to Eric on more than a physical level. His quick mind on the witness stand had intrigued her every bit as much as his high stud factor. "I had to fight my way past a medieval knight and two overprotective historical queens to be alone with you. I'm not backing down now." She sensed the heat of his body closing in on hers, breathed the spice of his aftershave and the smooth potency of the single malt scotch he'd been drinking. Desire stirred low in her belly, radiated outward to her limbs and tingled every inch of her body. He backed her up against the bed until her calves pressed into the mattress. His chest grazed hers, bronze plate to red satin. Her heart picked up speed to match her erratic breathing. Slowly, he pulled off the shirt of his costume, an action Chloe spied in the dim light filtering under the hotel room door. Muscles rippled in the shadowy outline of his shoulders, his arms. "I think you will be backing down." His voice rasped across the spare inch separating them. "Right about now." He leaned over her, effectively arching her backward into the soft comfort of the mattress. He followed her down, his body flush against hers. He steadied his weight with his arms planted alongside her shoulders. His arousal nudged her satin-covered hip and inspired a restless, aching hunger between her thighs. She couldn't answer, couldn't speak. Instead, she settled for threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him closer to kiss his lips, to caress the gentle scratch of his five o'clock-shadowed cheeks. Her fingers found the slight scar high on one cheekbone, and she kissed that, too. One day, she would ask him about that. But not now. Not when his broad palm skimmed up her calf and all the way to her thigh. Not when his work-hardened hands lingered over the top of her silk stocking, or his finger dipped below the sheer fabric to gently flick free the clasp.
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In some recess of her mind she registered that his callused hands seemed at odds with his financier work. The fingers that brushed away the dangling strap of her garter lacked the manicured smoothness common in her blue-blooded world. Something about the man's rough edges sizzled her from the inside out. She wriggled beneath him, impatient to be free of her dress. Divining her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken the words, Eric unzipped the red satin gown and slid it down her legs. "I need to see you." Eric reached above her head to click the bedside lamp on its lowest setting. Chloe blinked against the brightness, but the husky tone of Eric's voice assured her he wasn't going to notice the tornadolike condition of her hotel room right now. "Holy hell, Chloe." His words surprised her, forced her eyelids open. He was staring unabashedly at her choice of lingerie ? a red fishnet teddy with built-in bra she'd picked up at one of Manhattan's racier retail establishments. "What?" "You're definitely not as buttoned-up as you look." "Disappointed?" She walked her fingers down his chest to the waistband of his pants, then smoothed her hand over his erection, around his hip. He sucked in a breath and gripped her wandering hand in the vise of his fingers. "Definitely not." Accustomed to winning what she wanted, Chloe didn't let her temporary imprisonment stop her exploration. She merely lifted her hips off the bed to caress him with another part of her anatomy. And it didn't take long for her to win her case. Eric's pants hit the floor along with her panties in record time. Before she could delicately broach the matter of a condom, he had already rolled one on. She delighted in her victory, soaring high from the moment he edged himself inside of her. The heat of his body, the stroke of his tongue over her barely covered breasts nudged her closer to a level of bliss she'd only dreamed about. He palmed her belly as he settled deeper within her, reached lower to touch her pulsing center. With slow advance and retreat of his touch he teased and enticed her until she screamed his name with enough volume to wake the whole floor. Eric followed her ? more quietly ? but with just as much power. The endorphins she felt after eating a whole bowl of rocky road ice cream didn't even come close to the unadulterated ecstasy of her release. But like anything that delivered that much pleasure, Eric Matteo could prove to be a big mistake. She'd just bared her body, soul, and maybe even her heart to a man from the bottom-line-driven, moneyed world that had suffocated her all her life. Could she really afford to blithely curl into the shelter of his arms and pretend morning wouldn't come? Chapter Six Eric had never been given such a gift. The uptown lady lawyer had not only chosen him over her highbrow old flame earlier tonight, she'd also fulfilled his every fantasy in her red fishnet teddy and stop-traffic garters.And, heaven help him, she was inching her way closer again as they sprawled together in her bed. He could hardly think straight with a redheaded siren walking her fingers up his chest and whispering naughty invitations in his ear.
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"Our first time was the most fun I've ever had in bed," she admitted as her questing touch drifted under the sheets. "Care to break that record in Round Two?" Hell, yes. The sentiment blared across his conscience, obliterating his recurring thought that he needed to talk to her, needed to confess the sticky situation that might arise for them professionally next week. His body had more important talking to do ? as did Chloe's, judging by the way she slid one satiny leg over his thigh. But while her one hand slid around his waist, her other caressed his cheekbone, lingering on the scar that had been there since childhood. He pried an eye open to find her studying his face with a tender concern that slugged him square in the gut and awakened his common sense. "Chloe, wait." He had to tell her about the proposed project for the empty lot on Broadway, even if it robbed him of his chance to be with her. "We need to talk." She frowned, her soft lips puckering into a sexy pout. "Don't tell me we're out of condoms." "Actually, I'm as much of an overplanner as you are, and I'm armed for a couple more go-rounds." His finger itched to touch that sensual mouth, to trace the curves of an exaggerated Cupid's bow. "But there's a realworld issue I need to put on the table before we go any further." If she was worried at his sober tone, her mischievous grin sure didn't give it away. "I didn't think it was possible to go much further than we've already been." He propped himself up on one elbow, bracing himself for possible fall-out. "I should have told you earlier, Chloe, in the interest of full disclosure. After failing to put together the deal on the cultural center, I've decided to propose a different project for the lot next to your historical building." He waited for her to start throwing his clothes in his face, but she seemed to still be listening. "This one doesn't involve your client's property in the least. But I did already file the papers for the necessary permits." Would she be on the phone to her client before she could even chase him out the door? Not that he'd leave before he made a few closing arguments of his own. She stared at him across the pillow, eyes wide. Great, she was probably in shock, horrified that she'd slept with a guy who withheld information."And you think for some reason I wouldn't know this already?" She raised an auburn eyebrow. "What do I look like, a first year law student? A bad sequel to Legally Blonde?" *** Chloe stared back at Eric, feeling pretty damn pleased with herself for shocking the socks off him. Her family had expected perfection of her for so long she wasn't used to being underestimated. "You knew about this?" He sounded downright skeptical. Foolish man. "City zoning information is open to the public. Ever since I signed on to represent the historical society, I've had a law clerk conduct frequent searches on permit applications in the Broadway area." She shrugged. Seemed like basic "cover-your-butt" strategy in her book. But Eric looked at her as though she'd just solved global warming. A fact that sent an unexpected rush of gratification through her, a gentle pleasure that was ? in its own way ? as powerful as the earth-shattering sexual fulfillment he'd given her an hour ago. "You're telling me you know I want to put up apartments next door to your historical building, and you don't care?"
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The flow of pleasure slowed. "Of course I care. No doubt we'll be facing off over this in court again. But don't think I'm going to cut you any slack just because of tonight." He lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Maybe I'd better find myself a good attorney. You might be a little too much for me to handle." His fingers skated across the blanket to land on her shoulder, and then traced the line of her collarbone. "In the courtroom, that is. I think I can fend for myself in the bedroom." His touch sent shock waves through her, accelerating her pulse and reminding her she had absolutely nothing on beneath the sheets. "You'd better get up early in the morning if you're going to find a lawyer to match wits with me," she teased, allowing her eyes to drift shut in response to his wandering caress. "I'm out of luck until Monday." He lifted her hair off her throat and leaned in to kiss her neck. Thoroughly. "I've got houses to build tomorrow." Had she just heard him correctly? "Houses to build?" She scooted herself backward, away from the kiss that threatened to scramble her thoughts. "You don't have permission to start building anything on that site yet." "Not those houses. I do volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity on the weekends. I've been building houses every Saturday since high school." Perhaps she looked confused because Eric pantomimed the act of hitting a nail with a hammer. "You know, house building. Like a carpenter." Or like the blue-collar construction worker stud of her dreams. She'd watched enough soda commercials in her lifetime to buy into the fantasy of a sexy, sweaty guy in work overalls. Chloe's mouth went dry as she envisioned Eric Matteo's muscles in a faded T-shirt. This wasn't sounding very blue-blooded to her at all. In fact, it sounded quite delicious. "You mean like with a tool belt?" Chloe clarified. "And tools?" She needed to get her facts straight before she jumped to conclusions that might put her heart at risk. "I thought you were as much a part of New York old-money society as me." "I'm not." He frowned, his intense eyes darkening until they were almost black. "Does that matter to you?" "Having grown up in a house full of people so damn reserved they can't give their kid a birthday party without consulting the social register, yes, I'd say it does matter to me. I'm not getting involved in a serious relationship with any man who puts a lot of importance on those kinds of externals." She was struck anew by visions of her gladiator in blue jeans. And a tool belt. "But if you're the down-to-earth kind of guy I'm thinking you might be, this puts a whole new spin on things." He reached across the bed and hauled her to him. Tightly. "Meaning a serious relationship with me is now in the works." Warmth curled through her, along with an anticipation for something that went far beyond sex. "It's a possibility." "It's a done deal, counselor, and don't even think about arguing your way out of this one." He outlined the curve of her hip with his hand, fitted her to his arousal by pressing her all the closer.
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"I thought I was the Heart Queen tonight," she argued, just because it was fun to spar with him. She'd secretly enjoyed their courtroom clashes in the past because he'd been a quick wit and a clever speaker. She had the feeling she was going to enjoy their personal encounters all the more. "Then it looks like you've got your work cut out for you to make an uptown girl fall head over heels in love with a working-class upstart like me." "I'm a step ahead of the witness, as usual." Chloe combed her fingers through Eric's dark hair and drew his mouth closer to hers. Her girlfriends would never believe how wildly successful tonight's manhunting masquerade had been. "That particular romantic mission has already been completed." He stared down at her in the half light, looking as dark and dangerous as a Roman gladiator, as musclebound sexy as any construction worker. "Then I'm going to spend tonight giving you a peek into your future, Chloe, and show you just how much I'm going to love you right back. Are you game for the adventure of a lifetime?" She bit her lip as if really deliberating the question, then flashed him an innocent smile. "Actually, I made this pact to be a little more daring?." Eric tackled her to the bed before she could even finish fully provoking him. And Chloe knew with deep certainty that this man was going to bring the best kind of turbulence, change ? and love ? into her life, after all.
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Made to Measure by Joan Elliott Pickard When jet-setting executive Connor O'Shea crashes at his aunt's house, all he wants is a bed for the night. Instead he finds petite attorney Mary-Clair Cavelli — and loses his heart. As the only sister of five large brothers, Mary-Clair has had enough of being considered a child. Her entire life her small stature has drawn condescending treatment from boyfriends and family alike, resulting in her one steadfast rule: no tall men. It's a rule she takes seriously — but the 6'3" Connor plans to convince her that some rules were made to be broken... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20|
CHAPTER ONE "No, Murphy," Mary-Clair Cavelli said. "Gazing at me with those big, brown eyes is not going to cause me to change my mind. I am not going to sleep with you." She paused. "Well, to be more precise, you are not going to sleep with me." Murphy flopped down on a small, braided rug, lowered his chin to his paws and sighed. Mary-Clair patted the old dog on his furry head. "You're a sweetheart, Murphy," she said, "but Esther said you're to sleep on your rug on the floor next to the bed. Nice try, though." Murphy thumped his tail on the rug. Laughing softly, Mary-Clair got into the double bed and pulled up the blankets. She snapped off the lamp on the nightstand, wiggled into a comfortable position, then closed her eyes. She'd never dog-sat before, was not used to sleeping in a strange bed but, she thought, if she relaxed and ignored the creaking noises the house was making, she would be fine. Mary-Clair yawned, then gave way to blissful slumber. Several hours later, she jerked awake and sat bolt upward in the bed, her heart racing. What had caused her to be snatched from the pleasant dream she had been having? She wondered. Murphy was snoring, the dear old thing. That rumbling noise must be what had wakened her. She'd just have to ignore it and... "Ohmigod," Mary-Clair whispered, yanking the blankets up to beneath her chin as she sat ramrod stiff on the bed. She'd heard a thud, then the muffled sound of a man swearing. Oh, dear heaven, she thought frantically, there was someone downstairs. Was there a telephone in this guest room so she could call the police? She hadn't even looked. Was there an extension in Esther and Bill's room down the hall? She didn't know. There was a robber...or maybe a murderer...tromping around and... Calm down, she ordered herself, taking a steadying breath. She might not be very big at five-foot-two, but was she a wimp? No, she was not. Was she just going to sit there and wait to be murdered in her bed? No, she was not. She was taking action. Right now. Well, just as soon as she could get her fingers to release their tight hold on the blanket.
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A moment later, Mary-Clair slipped off the bed and prodded Murphy with her foot. "Wake up," she whispered, "and look mean, really vicious." Murphy snored on. "Darn it." A weapon, she thought, mentally cataloging what she had seen earlier in the now-dark room. Yes, there was a set of golf clubs over in the corner. Perfect. Tiptoeing around Murphy, then across the room, her legs trembling with fear, Mary-Clair reached the golf bag, drew out one of the clubs, then made her way toward the bedroom door, her mighty weapon at the ready.
CHAPTER TWO By the time Mary-Clair reached the bottom of the stairs, her heart was pounding so wildly she could hear the echo in her ears. The light in the kitchen, she realized, was on, casting a dim glow over the living room. Why was the intruder in the kitchen? Was there a big market for stolen microwave ovens? A chill coursed through Mary-Clair as she made her way across the living room. She stopped at the kitchen doorway and peered around the edge, her trusty golf club held high in the air. Well, for Pete's sake, she thought, frowning. The crook was making himself a sandwich? He had his back to her but she could see a loaf of bread, a jar of mayonnaise and another of dill pickles on the counter. Good grief, she thought, swallowing a lump in her throat, he was huge. Her father and her five older brothers were all six-feet tall, but this rotten person who had broken into Esther and Bill's house, was at least six-footthree! The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Mary-Clair thought, knowing she was on the edge of hysteria. She crept forward, the golf club now extended toward the man. Just as he speared a pickle with a fork, she planted the club firmly in the middle of his back. "Put your hands up," she said, wishing her voice didn't sound like a squeaky mouse. "I mean it. Put them up, or I'll...I'll... Just do what I said, mister." The man's hands shot up in the air, the fork with the dripping pickle going along for the journey. "Don't make any funny moves," Mary-Clair said. "I have a vicious attack dog right next to me here just waiting for an excuse to take a bite —" her gaze slid over the man, who was wearing dark slacks and a pale blue knit shirt "— of your gorgeous tush, buster." "Vicious attack dog?" the man said, with a burst of laughter. "Murphy? I'd bet a buck that he's snoring away on his favorite rug even as we speak." "Huh?" Mary-Clair said. The man turned, the fork and pickle in his right hand, and calmly removed the golf club from Mary-Clair's grasp with his left. "Oh, hey," he said, "look at this. Nice. Uncle Bill said he was shopping for a new set of clubs and he sure went top of the line." He shifted his gaze to Mary-Clair, who was staring at him with wide eyes.
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"By the way," he said, "who are you? And what are you doing in my Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill's house wearing nothing but —" he did a quick head-to-toe perusal of Mary-Clair "— a skimpy nightshirt with a picture of Donald Duck on the front?" He paused. "Well, you can explain the whole thing while I eat my sandwich. I'm a starving man." He extended the fork toward Mary-Clair. "Want a pickle?"
CHAPTER THREE An information hotline began to deliver data to Mary-Clair's beleaguered brain so quickly she could hardly comprehend one message before another came tumbling forward. The first item to register was the fact, she realized dismally, that she'd just made a complete idiot of herself. This was not a mass-murderer who had decided to make himself a sandwich before killing her deader than a post, he was Esther and Bill's nephew. The next news that slammed into front row center was that he was the most handsome male specimen she had ever seen. His features were rugged, as though chiseled from stone, then bronzed by the sun. His shoulders were wide, the material of the knit shirt stretching across them and the broad chest beneath. His legs were muscular, his blond hair thick and sun-streaked and just begging to have feminine fingers sifting through it. His eyes, which had seemed to burn a heated path over her as he'd scrutinized her, were so blue they would make the most gorgeous summer sky appear anemic. The last bulletin to reach Mary-Clair caused her cheeks to flush. She was standing there in all her glory in her Donald Duck nightshirt that fell to midthigh and was made of soft, clinging material, clearly defining, she didn't doubt for a minute, her full breasts. She had to get out of this kitchen! "Well," she said brightly, "won't this be a great story to tell Esther and Bill? It's so funny...just...hysterical. I mean, here I thought you were a murderer or...and it turns out... My, my, what a hoot." She yawned and patted her hand against her mouth. "I must get some sleep. Enjoy your pickle. Good night." Mary-Clair spun around and made it all the way to the doorway before a deep voice boomed and halted her in her tracks. "Hold it right there." Mary-Clair sighed and turned to face the man again. "We've established who I am," he said. He set the fork with the pickle on the counter and leaned the golf club against the lower cupboard. "My name is Connor O'Shea, by the way, but I don't have a clue as to who you are or why you're here. I have a key to the house and I bunk in whenever my company assigns me an advertising contract in Ventura." He swept one arm through the air. "Your turn. For all I know, you're a murderer wanted by the FBI." A flash of fury coursed through Mary-Clair and she planted her hands on her hips. In the next instant she whipped her hands around her elbows as she realized how tightly the material of the nightshirt was being pulled across her breasts. She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.
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"You have just given a whole new meaning," Connor said, his voice very deep, very rumbly, and very, very male, "to the cliché 'she's beautiful when angry.'"
CHAPTER FOUR The rich timbre of Connor O'Shea's voice caused Mary-Clair to have the disconcerting feeling that her bones were dissolving from the heat that suffused her, a fact that she immediately decided to ignore...somehow. "For your information, Mr. O'Shea," she said, lifting her chin even higher, "Esther happens to be my dear friend and secretary...well, mine and my law partner's. Be that as it may, Esther asked me to take care of Murphy because of a family emergency that required Esther and Bill to leave immediately." Connor frowned. "What family emergency? I just got back from an assignment in Paris and was going to catch up on any messages on my answering machine in my apartment in San Francisco in the morning. What's going on?" "Oh. Well, Esther and Bill's daughter..." "My cousin, Betsy," Connor said, nodding. "Betsy is having some problems with her pregnancy and has been ordered to stay in bed. Your aunt and uncle have gone to Chicago to help tend to the other two children and their son-in-law and… So, here I am. Oh, and I'm Mary-Clair Cavelli." "Man, that's rough," Connor said, dragging one hand through his hair. "I hope nothing happens to that baby. It's a girl and everyone is so excited because they already have two boys and… Well, it was nice of you to step in and take care of old Murphy." "Vicious beast that he is," Mary-Clair said, smiling. Connor stared at Mary-Clair intently. "You have a lovely smile, Ms. Cavelli. It just lights up your face and… Look, I apologize if I frightened you by coming into the house unannounced." "No harm done," Mary-Clair said, averting her eyes from Connor's. "Since you're here, though, I'll go back to my own place in the morning. Murphy doesn't need two baby-sitters." "You can't do that," Connor said quickly. No, no way, he thought. He'd just met this intriguing, beautiful, feisty woman and he wasn't about to let her just disappear, never to be seen again. "What I mean is," he went on, as Mary-Clair frowned at his sudden outburst, "I'll be putting in very long hours on this assignment and Murphy will think he's all alone and he can't handle that. He'll pine away from loneliness, poor old guy. No, you stay on just as planned. You won't even know I'm around because I'll be working until the wee hours of the night." Connor smiled and Mary-Clair felt a frisson of heat slither down her back. "Just don't threaten to golf club me to death the next time I come in late," he said. "Right," Mary-Clair said weakly, then took a much-needed breath as she realized she'd forgotten to breathe during the unsettling effects of Connor's devastating smile. "So, we're in agreement?" Connor said. "We'll both stay? Here?" He grinned. "Together?"
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CHAPTER FIVE Mary-Clair Cavelli. Her named hummed in Connor's mind as he drove through Ventura in the heavy, after-work traffic. "Mary-Clair Cavelli," he said aloud, making no attempt to curb the smile that formed on his lips. He could see her so clearly in his mental vision, he realized, it was as though she were sitting right next to him in the car. Her short, curly black hair framed a face with big dark eyes and beautiful, delicate features. She had tawny skin that spoke of her Italian heritage, as did her dynamite temper when she got on a rip. She had a lush figure that her funny nightshirt had been unable to hide. Mary-Clair Cavelli had caused him to toss and turn through the remaining hours of the previous night because both his body and his mind knew that she was sleeping just down the hall from him in his aunt and uncle's house. Oh, she was something, Connor mused. He'd had trouble concentrating on the job today, had continually expressed the excuse to those around him that he was suffering from jet lag after flying in from Paris. Ms. Cavelli had had a powerful impact on him, that was for sure...and he liked the feelings she evoked in him, he really did. He'd been restless and edgy for months, Connor thought, as he maneuvered through the traffic. He was tired of the constant travel his job required, the endless hotel rooms and living out of a suitcase the majority of the time. And the bottom line that he'd admitted to himself in recent weeks was that he was lonely. He was 36 years old and was ready to settle down and get married, have a slew of babies. He wanted a home to come to each night where he would be greeted by the woman he loved and who loved him in kind. Mary-Clair Cavelli. Was she the woman he'd been hoping to find? Had fate had a hand in her being in his Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill's house at the exact moment he made one of his unannounced appearances? Was Mary-Clair his soul mate? His destiny? He didn't know. "But I sure intend to find out," he said aloud, as he turned a corner and left the busy street behind. He wove his way slowly through the subdivision of large homes with perfectly kept lawns, his heart quickening when he saw a compact car in the driveway of his aunt and uncle's house. He parked at the curb, picked up the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat, ran his hand down his tie, then got out of the car. Moments later Connor inserted his key in the door and entered the house, immediately savoring the delicious aroma of mingled spices that wafted through the air. He closed the door quietly behind him, then drew a deep, steadying breath. "Honey," he called out, "I'm home."
CHAPTER SIX Mary-Clair stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She stiffened and her eyes widened as she heard Connor's greeting. Honey, I'm home? her mind echoed. Connor was here? Now? But he'd said he'd be working long hours and she'd probably never see him and… Why on earth was she so glad to hear his voice, to know he was just a
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room away? Why was her heart beating like a bongo drum and a strange heat swirling low within her? She didn't know. She didn't want to know. She'd managed to ignore...sort of...the image of Connor that kept creeping into her mind's eye through the hours of the day. She'd refused to listen...sort of...to the memory of his rich, deep voice that caused shivers to flutter throughout her. Her reactions to Connor O'Shea were ridiculous and a waste of time because he was in Ventura on a temporary assignment. Besides that, the man was six-foot-three, for Pete's sake. She had an ironclad rule about never dating men who were more than five-nine or -ten to give herself at least a fighting chance of being treated as an equal. She was sick to death of being a "cute little thing" and hearing demeaning nonsense like "I want to put you in my pocket and take you home" that had continually been the mantra of taller men. Honey, I'm home? Mary-Clair thought, setting the spoon on the top of the stove and straightening the edge of her red sweater over her jean-clad hips. Well, she had news for Mr. O'Shea. She was not now, nor would she ever be, his honey. Mary-Clair marched from the kitchen with Murphy lumbering behind her. She reached the center of the living room at the same time Connor did and all rational thought fled her mind as he extended the bouquet of flowers toward her. "I... Thank you," she said, inhaling the lovely scent of the blossoms. She swept her gaze over Connor, mentally approving of his custom-tailored dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and dark tie. "You were still asleep when I left this morning, I guess. You look very...yuppyish." "I had jet lag," Connor said, "so I slept late. What smells so good?" "Spaghetti sauce," Mary-Clair said, meeting Connor's gaze. "I made it following my mother's recipe. I thought I could freeze some for Esther and… Why are you here so early?" "Do you want me to say I'm still tired from jet lag?" Connor said. "Or should I tell you the truth?" "Truth is good," Mary-Clair said, frowning. "I was raised to believe that truth is a very important thing." "Okay," he said, then took a deep breath and exhaled it, puffing out his cheeks. "I'm here, Mary-Clair, because I thought about you all day and I wanted to see you, wanted to ask you to have dinner with me, wanted to spend the evening with you. There. That's the truth."
CHAPTER SEVEN Say something sophisticated, Mary-Clair told herself frantically. Do not dwell for one second on how what Connor just said seemed to be stroking her like soft velvet and creating a swirling heat deep within her. Execute a firm but polite dust-off of this man who is here temporarily and who is much too tall to even carry on a conversation with. Mary-Clair opened her mouth and said one little word that came out in a funny little puff of air. "Oh." "That's it?" Connor said, smiling. "I bare my soul with all that truth and all I get is a tiny little 'oh'?" Mary-Clair frowned. "Yes. Nothing else seems to be waiting in the wings to come spilling out of my mouth." "Are you angry that I showed up here so early?"
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"No, not really," she said. "Would you like some spaghetti? I made enough to feed my five brothers." "Five big protective-type brothers?" Connor said. "Got it in one," Mary-Clair said, laughing. "They drive me nuts." She paused and became serious. "I suppose it's only fair that I share some truth of my own to match some of yours." Connor nodded. "I'm glad you're here, Connor. It will be nice to have dinner with someone...with you...and I thought about you during the day and... That's enough." She spun around and headed toward the kitchen. Yes! Connor thought, punching one fist in the air. *** The meal was delicious and the conversation lively. The flowers had a place of honor on the table in a pretty vase. "I'm stuffed," Connor said finally, leaning back in the chair. "It was fantastic. Thank you, Mary-Clair." "You're welcome," she said. Connor moved forward again and pushed his plate to one side so he could fold his arms on the top of the table. "You know," he said, "thinking about what you told me, I have to say that I really admire you and Jessica for focusing your law practice on helping women." "It's very emotionally rewarding," Mary-Clair said. "In the financial arena we're still struggling a bit. Jessica and I were thrilled when we could afford to hire a secretary. Enter your Aunt Esther and her yummy homemade cookies." Connor smiled. "She sure can bake, can't she?" He paused and frowned. "Mary-Clair, have you ever considered that you might be putting yourself in danger because some of the men involved in the cases you take on might become a tad ticked off?" "Why would I be in danger?" she said, a slight edge to her voice. "Because I'm short, not a very big woman?" "How tall you are has nothing to do with it," Connor said, confusion evident in his expression. "It's a proven fact that men are simply stronger than women, no matter how tall that woman might be." He narrowed his eyes. "You have a thing about being short, don't you? It's a major issue with you? Right, Mary-Clair?"
CHAPTER EIGHT Mary-Clair stared at Connor for a long moment, then sighed. "I'm sorry I got so grumpy," she said. "It's just that I grew up with a father and five brothers who are all six feet tall. Then when I started dating? Grim. Now I never go out with a man who is over five-foot-nine or -ten." A cold fist tightened in Connor's stomach. "I'm six-foot..." "Three," she finished for him. "I'm a pro at knowing how tall a man is at first glance."
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"So you won't go out with me?" he said. "Nope," she said, poking her nose in the air. "Would you consider it if I promised to spend the evening walking on my knees?" Connor said. Mary-Clair laughed. "Oh, good grief." "I don't get it, Mary-Clair," Connor said. "Why the mind-set against dating tall men? Because you get a stiff neck talking to them or something?" "There's that," she said, nodding, "but there's even more. Tall men have a tendency to treat me like a child, Connor. They eventually say icky things like I'm so adorable, so cute, or I remind them of a Kewpie doll that should be set on a shelf, taken care of, protected. I'm 31 years old, for heaven's sake." "Mmm," he said, nodding. "Did you notice that as we sit here at the table we're just about the same height?" "One does not spend one's life on one's bottom, Mr. O'Shea," she said. "True." Connor pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Okay, we'll run a test here." He came around the table and extended his hand to Mary-Clair. Mary-Clair placed her hand in Connor's and stood, looking up at him. "What kind of a test?" she said. Connor released her hand, framed her face in both of his, then lowered his head slowly toward Mary-Clair's. "This one," he said. Connor leaned down, bent his knees a bit, then his mouth captured Mary-Clair's in a sweet, tender kiss that intensified moments later. Oh...my...stars, Mary-Clair thought, then quit thinking and simply savored the exquisite, heated sensations that were rocketing throughout her as she returned the kiss in total abandon. Connor raised his head a fraction of an inch to draw a ragged breath, then slanted his mouth in the opposite direction and claimed Mary-Clair's lips once again. There had never been, he thought hazily, a kiss like this. He was on fire, had been consumed instantly by passion so hot, so burning, that he was going up in flames. But it wasn't lust...oh, no...it was desire that was pure, honest, and real. It was the wanting beyond measure of this woman, not just physically but with a need to mesh with her emotionally, as well. He'd never experienced anything like this before in his life. It was rare, wonderful, awesome. It was Mary-Clair Cavelli. And she was his.
CHAPTER NINE When Connor came dangerously close to losing control, he broke the kiss, straightened, and drew a rough breath.
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Mary-Clair placed one hand on her racing heart, willing it to return to a normal tempo. "I..." Connor started, then cleared his throat as he heard the gritty quality of his voice. "I rest my case. Test concluded and passed with flying colors." He paused. "Whew." "Yes, well," Mary-Clair said, then blinked in an attempt to dispel the sensual mist still swirling around her. "I... My goodness." "You can say that again," Connor said. "My goodness." "Let's sit down," Connor said. They sank back onto their chairs at the table, then their gazes met. "Mary-Clair," Connor said, "that was no ordinary kiss. Something very special happened between us just now. You won't deny that, will you? Remember that we put major emphasis on truth." Mary-Clair wrapped her hands around her elbows. "Truth. Yes. Well, no, I can't deny that the kiss was... I've never experienced anything... What I mean is... I have no idea what I mean." "We desire each other," Connor said, leaning toward her. "It wasn't lust. Desire means that emotions are involved and that was desire, Mary-Clair. Right?" "Yes, I...but..." Mary-Clair shook her head. "There's no point in having this discussion, Connor." "Why not?" "Because it means we're attempting to discover what this is that's happening between us and that's foolish. You're here for a visit and... Besides, you're still six-foot-three." "Darn it," Connor said, smacking the table with the palm of his hand and causing Mary-Clair to jerk in her chair. "I thought that kiss just proved that it doesn't matter how tall, or short, we are." "Oh, Connor," Mary-Clair said, "one kiss doesn't erase what I've known for years. It would only be a matter of time before you went into your tall-man mode, with all the bells and whistles." "No, I wouldn't," he said, none too quietly. "I don't see you as a short woman." His voice quieted. "I view you as a woman...period. A woman I desire more than any before. A woman who has knocked me for a loop. A woman who has become very important to me very, very quickly. Don't shut me out, please. Give us a chance to find out what this is." Before Mary-Clair could reply, the doorbell rang. "Saved by the bell?" she said, attempting to produce a smile that failed to appear. "We're not finished talking about this," Connor said, getting to his feet. "I'll go see what kind of salesperson is at the door." "I'll come with you," Mary-Clair said. Anything would be better than being left at that table with her own thoughts, she decided, following Connor out of the kitchen. She was so muddled, so terribly confused, so aware of the heat of desire still glowing within her. Oh, dear heaven, what was Connor O'Shea doing to her?
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CHAPTER TEN Connor opened the front door to find a tall, well-built man standing on the porch holding a foil-covered something. "Who are you?" Connor and the man said in unison. Mary-Clair stepped forward and planted her hands on her hips. "Dominick Cavelli," she said, "what are you doing here?" "Hello, Mary-Clair," Dominick said gruffly, his gaze riveted on Connor. "I was visiting our folks and Mom wanted you to have this cake." "Which you were only too happy to deliver," Mary-Clair said. "You're checking up on me for the family because I'm in this house alone without the benefit of the security guard at my apartment building." "In this house alone?" Dominick said, narrowing his eyes. "This guy doesn't look like a dog named Murphy. What's going on here?" "Come in before you put on a show for the whole neighborhood," Mary-Clair said. Dominick stepped into the house, pushed the cake at Mary-Clair, then turned to glare at Connor, who matched his stormy expression. "Connor O'Shea," Mary-Clair said, her voice ringing with fury, "meet my brother Dominick, who is a fine example of some of the bells and whistles I spoke of." "The what?" Dominick said, glancing at his sister. "Forget it," she said, placing the dessert on a side table. "Goodbye, Dom." "Not so fast," he said. "What am I supposed to tell our parents, Mary-Clair? That you're not in any danger over here because there's a big dude living in the house with you and the dog?" "Oh, now, hey, wait a minute," Connor said. It was too much, it really was. Dom's sudden arrival, complete with angry accusations, was more than she could deal with, Mary-Clair realized instantly. She was over the top emotionally, due to the unsettling kiss shared with Connor. She had no place to put this. "Well?" Dom said, staring at his sister. "What do you have to say for yourself, Mary-Clair Cavelli?" "You've discovered my secret, Dom," Mary-Clair said, slipping one arm through one of Connor's, who stared down at her with wide eyes. "It's time...no, it's long overdue...that the family acknowledge that I'm all grown up and in charge of my own decisions. My darling Connor and I...are..." She waved one hand breezily in the air. "I'd rather not divulge the intimate details so...good night, Dom. Tell Mom I said thanks for the cake." "Mary-Clair," Dom said, "you have five minutes to pack your suitcase and..." Connor slipped his arm free of Mary-Clair's, gripped the edge of the door and began to move it slowly toward Dominick. "Nice meeting you, Dom," Connor said, as Mary-Clair's brother found himself back on the porch. "But MaryClair and I prefer to be alone. Bye." Connor closed the door, locked it, then heavy footsteps could be heard stomping away.
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"Oh, my stars," Mary-Clair said, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "What have I done?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN Connor sat on the sofa, his head swiveling back and forth as he watched Mary-Clair pace. "I can't believe I did that," Mary-Clair said, as she continued her trek. "What could I have been thinking? I wasn't thinking...not rationally. I was so jangled from that kiss we shared and...I actually told Dominick that you and I..." She glanced at her watch. "Oh-h-h, Dom will be at my parents' house any minute now with his announcement that you and I... The phone is going to ring. My mother is going to call here and... Oh-h-h." She kept up her nonstop chatter and as each minute ticked by, Connor O'Shea fell a little more in love with Mary-Clair Cavelli. Man, Connor thought, unable to keep from smiling, he was on top of the world, felt fantastic. He was honestto-goodness in love for the first time in his life. And there she was, the woman who had captured his heart so fast it was unbelievable. There she was. Mary-Clair. Connor frowned. There she was...coming unglued and he was sitting here grinning like an idiot instead of trying to comfort her. "Mary-Clair," he said, "I want to help. You said your mother is going to call. And say what? That your five big brothers are being dispatched posthaste to beat me to a pulp?" Mary-Clair stopped in front of Connor and met his gaze. "I wish it was that simple," she said, throwing out her arms. "Oh, thanks a bunch," he said, laughing. "How long does a person have to stay in a body cast?" "Don't be silly, Connor," she said. "The Cavellis are not a violent family." She paused. "Well, there was the time when I was 10 and a boy cut off one of my braids and my brothers... Forget it. That's ancient news." "Fast forward to the present," Connor said. "What is your mother going to say?" He patted the cushion next to him. "Come here." Mary-Clair collapsed next to Connor and allowed him to draw her near. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "My mother," she said, then drew a wobbly little breath, "will invite us to dinner." Connor waited...15 seconds, 20, 30. "That's it?" he said finally. "You're all shook-up because we'll be asked to eat Italian meat loaf, or something?" Mary-Clair sat up and turned to look at Connor, her face only inches from his. "You don't understand," she said. "My family won't rant and rave about what I told Dom, about what they believe you and I are... Oh, no, they'll simply march right on to the next step." "Guess who's coming to dinner?" Connor said, raising his eyebrows. "You bet," she said, nodding. "They'll put you through the inquisition...big-time. They will do that, you see, because they'll be taking the very firm stand that we are...are getting married, Connor."
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CHAPTER TWELVE Three cheers for the Cavelli clan! Connor mentally yelled, while maintaining a serious expression. "I see," he said slowly. "That's certainly an old-fashioned stand, isn't it?" "This is terrible, just terrible," Mary-Clair said, plunking her head back onto Connor's shoulder. A second later she popped up again. "I'll straighten this out, Connor. I'll tell my mother that I had a hard day, was tired, just lost my temper when Dom…" "No, now wait a minute," Connor said. "If you do that you'll be viewed as a cute little girl who threw a tantrum because she needed a nap." "Oh, blak." "Indeed," Connor said, gripping Mary-Clair's shoulders. "Listen to me. You've taken a decisive step toward your independence, made it clear that you're a mature woman who is capable of making her own decisions. You don't want to lose all the ground you've gained, do you?" "Of course, not, but..." Mary-Clair started. "So, don't," Connor said. "We'll accept the invitation to dinner. I can handle the bare lightbulb bit." "What's the point?" Mary-Clair said. "We are not getting married, Connor." Don't bet the farm on that one, sweet Mary-Clair, Connor thought, his heart soaring at the mere idea of Mary-Clair becoming his wife, his life's partner. "You're buying time, don't you see?" he said, tightening his hold slightly on Mary-Clair's shoulders. "This will give your family an opportunity to get used to the idea that you're all grown-up, that you don't need your brothers hovering over you. They'll realize that you're a woman, not a child." "But..." The telephone shrilled in the distance. "Oh-h-h," Mary-Clair said, flinging her arms around Connor's neck. "There's my mother in her stubborn Italian mind-set, determined to find out who this man is who should make an honest woman of her baby girl." "Go answer the phone," Connor said, as it continued to ring. "Go on. Be brave, courageous, and bold. You can do it." Mary-Clair got to her feet. "Are you certain this is a good plan?" "Positive," he said, nodding. "Why are you putting yourself through this, Connor? It's a lovely thing to do...helping me prove my independence and maturity to my family. It's going to be a grim evening, believe me. So, why are you doing this?" Because I love you, Mary-Clair Cavelli, Connor thought, and I intend to tell you that just as soon as I think you're ready to hear it. "I'm a nice guy?" he said, smiling up at her.
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"You're a wonderful guy," Mary-Clair said, smiling at him warmly. She pressed her hands flat on her stomach and drew a steadying breath. "Here I go. Answering the phone. Next week." "Mary-Clair!" "Okay!" She hurried across the living room and into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned, sank back onto the sofa next to Connor, and sighed. "Tomorrow night," she said dismally. "Dinner at the Cavelli homestead. Seven o'clock."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Laughter erupted in the dining room at the Cavelli home as Connor related a tale of accidentally presenting an advertising campaign for baby diapers to the directors of a beer company. Mary-Clair looked at her smiling family, then shifted her gaze to Connor, her heart racing as she drank in the sight of him. Her family, she knew, was captivated by Connor. And so was she. Time and again during the day she'd thought about how determined Connor had been to help her cement her independence. That was what a special friend would do, and she'd heard so often that the person someone loved should also be her best friend. Mary-Clair, stop, she told herself. She was not in love with Connor O'Shea. Granted, she melted at his touch, and dissolved when he kissed her. He occupied her mind during the day and caused her to wake in the night suffused with heated desire. She'd found herself counting the hours until she would see him again and... No. Nothing could erase the fact that Connor was six feet three inches tall. There had not been even a hint that he would treat her like a child, but it was just a matter of time before he began to view her as a cute little thing who needed to be protected from the big, bad world. There were also the data, Mary-Clair mused on — that Connor resided in... "You live in San Francisco?" Nick Cavelli said. Bingo, Mary-Clair thought dismally. And it was miles and miles away. "Yes, I do," Connor said, looking at Mary-Clair's brother, whom he recalled was a year older than Dominick. "For now." "Oh?" Rome said. Huh? Mary-Clair thought, staring at Connor. Rome, Connor thought quickly. He had been named in honor of the Pope. It was a good thing the two married brothers couldn't make it tonight, or he'd never be able to keep them all straight. "My company has been considering opening a branch in Ventura," Connor said. "I spoke with the CEO today and said I would be happy to head up an office here. An hour later I got a call saying it was a done deal. I'm going to start scouting locations." "Isn't that nice?" Marcella said, beaming at her husband, Clemento.
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"Sounds good," Mary-Clair's father said. "Then you'll be a citizen of Ventura, just like our Mary-Clair." "Yes, sir," Connor said. No, sir, Mary-Clair thought. Connor was laying it on too thick in his quest to buy her time to establish her womanly identity. Well, she supposed this had merit. When Connor resumed his traveling it would be a ready excuse as to why their relationship didn't work out. Score another point for O'Shea. But he would be leaving. And the very thought of that, she realized instantly, was causing a chill to sweep through her as she envisioned saying that last goodbye to Connor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Arrivederci gelato," Connor boomed, as he drove through the heavy traffic. "Hey, Mary-Clair, am I good at this Italian stuff, or what?" "You just said," Mary-Clair said, laughing, "goodbye to ice cream." "Whatever," Connor said, glancing over at her with a grin. "You are molto bellino. That means very pretty, you know." "Grazie," Mary-Clair said, dipping her head slightly. "Yep, you're a pro at speaking Italian after just one evening at the Cavellis." "Awesome, isn't it?" he said, chuckling. "Are your other two brothers as good-looking as the three that were there tonight? You Cavellis are certainly attractive people. You could be models." Mary-Clair frowned. "I'm a tad short to be a model." "Oops. I didn't mean to hit on that subject," Connor said. "Let's talk about food. Your mother is a great cook and that was a delicious dinner. What can I say? I enjoyed myself. You have a fantastic family." "I love them very much," Mary-Clair said quietly, "even when they're making me crazy." She paused. "You actually had a pleasant evening? Despite the fact you were being given the third degree?" "Yep," Connor said, nodding. "I just kept reminding myself that your clan believes we're living together...in every sense of the word. If you look at it like that, the drilling they gave me was perfectly understandable. If the smiles, handshakes, plus the hug from your mother mean anything, I didn't score too badly." "You were wonderful," Mary-Clair said, "considering you were winging it, making stuff up as you went along." "What do you mean?" Connor said, frowning. "You know, the bit about moving here to Ventura to open a branch office." "Oh, that," he said. "Hey, we're home. I bet Murphy will be glad to see us, providing he realized we left." "I guess it will work out all right," Mary-Clair said, as Connor pulled into the driveway. "I'll tell my family you changed your mind about living here, decided you liked traveling after all, and our relationship went south, or some such thing." "Mmm," Connor said, then got out of the vehicle.
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Murphy was snoring when Mary-Clair and Connor entered the house. Mary-Clair went into the kitchen to tend to the bag of leftovers that her mother had insisted she take home, as usual. When she returned to the living room she discovered that Connor had turned on one lamp, casting a soft glow over the area. He was sitting on the sofa, his arms spread across the top. "Come sit by me, Mary-Clair," he said. "Please?" Mary-Clair walked slowly forward. "Don't you think that sounds reasonable, Connor? You left to resume your jet-set existence and we fizzled out?" She sat down next to him and looked at him questioningly. "It would, except..." Connor said, then dropped a quick kiss on Mary-Clair's lips. "Mary-Clair, everything I said tonight was true."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN "What?" Mary-Clair said, her eyes widening. "I am going to head up a new branch office here," Connor said, wrapping one arm around Mary-Clair's shoulders. "I am tired of traveling all the time. I am going to live in Ventura...permanently." "Oh," Mary-Clair said, her mind racing. Connor wasn't going to leave? she thought incredulously. He wasn't going to disappear from her life as quickly as he'd come into it? This was wonderful! No, it was terrible, just awful. He'd be living in Ventura, would be as tempting as a box of delicious chocolates that were taboo on her constant diet and... Dear heaven, now she was even more muddled and unsettled than she'd been since the moment she'd met him. "You don't look too thrilled with this bulletin," Connor said, frowning. "I'm — I'm just surprised, that's all," she said. "I thought you told my family that you were moving here so that our — our relationship wouldn't appear so temporary and tacky and… You're staying?" "I am," he said, nodding decisively. "I'll finish this job I'm on, find an apartment, go back to San Francisco, and ship my belongings down here. In the meantime, I'll look for a good location for the branch when I have spare time. I'm going to settle in and settle down, Mary-Clair." "Oh," she said again weakly. "That's — that's...interesting. I'm sure your aunt Esther and uncle Bill and Murphy will be thrilled to have you living in Ventura." "And you?" he said. "How do you feel about it?" "Could I get back to you on that question?" she said. "I need time to process this information." "In that case," Connor said, "you should have all the data so you can do a proper job of processing." "I'm missing something?" Mary-Clair said, raising her eyebrows. "Oh, yes, ma'am, you most certainly are." Connor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Mary-Clair Cavelli, I, Connor O'Shea, am deeply and forever in love with you. You knocked me over, captured my heart, and I don't want it back. You're my soul mate, Mary-Clair, the woman I was beginning to believe that I would never find. I want to marry you, make beautiful babies with you, spend the remainder of my life with you. Ah, Mary-Clair, I love you so very, very much." Mary-Clair jumped to her feet, the color draining from her face as tears filled her eyes.
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"No, don't say that," she said, her voice trembling as she wrapped her hands around her elbows. "Don't tell me that you want to marry me, have beautiful babies and... Don't declare your love for me, Connor, because then I won't be able to keep from listening to my heart to discover how I feel about you. I might be in love with you right now, but I don't want to know. I don't. No, no, no." Two tears slid down her pale cheeks, followed by two more. "No."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Connor got to his feet and gripped Mary-Clair's shoulders. "Mary-Clair," he said, "talk to me. I don't understand why you're so upset. I have a right to know why you're rejecting me, don't you think? Sit back down. Please?" Mary-Clair nodded, dashed the tears from her cheeks, then settled next to Connor again on the sofa. "Oh, Connor," she said, her voice trembling, "I hated the thought of never seeing you again. Then when you said you really planned to live here, I was so happy." "Go on," he said. "You're everything I ever hoped to find in a man." Fresh tears filled Mary-Clair's eyes. "Oh, there's nowhere to hide from the truth. I've fallen deeply in love with you, Connor." "That's fantastic," he said, smiling. "No," she said, "it's not. I want, I need to be an equal partner in a relationship, a marriage, not someone who is protected and fussed over." "But I've never..." Connor started. "I know," she interrupted, waving one hand in the air. "You've never done anything to diminish my womanliness, have never treated me like a child because I'm short, small. You even went to my parents' house to help me establish my status as a woman capable of making her own decisions." "Right," Connor said. "But it's just a matter of time, Connor," Mary-Clair said. "It will happen. You'll hover, start saying I shouldn't do this, or that, because I'm so tiny and helpless and you'll step in and take care of it." "No, I..." "Painful experience has proven to me that what I'm saying is true. The difference in our heights is an insurmountable obstacle that would take a terrible toll on our marriage, no matter how much we might love each other. Some things...some things in life, even those we wish for with all our hearts, our very souls, are not meant to be. I can't marry you, Connor. I'd rather keep the precious memories of our time together than be a party to everything we have being crumbled into dust, destroyed." "I see," Connor said quietly, his mind racing. Easy, O'Shea, he told himself. Mary-Clair was at the edge emotionally. He'd defeat his own purpose if he pleaded his case, or argued about what she was saying. Better to keep still for now and savor the knowledge that she loved him, just as he loved her. Oh, man, Mary-Clair Cavelli was in love with him! "Well," he said, framing her face in his hands, "I'll have to...to deal with what you've said, won't I? But now? Let's create another precious memory. I want to make love with you more than I can even begin to tell you. Will you make love with me, Mary-Clair?"
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A jumble of voices seemed to shout in Mary-Clair's mind and she hushed them, listening only to her heart. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes, Connor, I want to make love with you. Right now."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN A week later Mary-Clair sat at the desk in her office, staring into space. Glorious, she thought dreamily. That was only one of the adjectives she could use to describe the past seven days, and ecstasy-filled nights of lovemaking shared with Connor. Mary-Clair sighed and frowned. And with each tick of the clock, she thought, she fell more deeply in love with Connor O'Shea. Oh, how foolish she was being by existing in a world of fantasy, living out a fairy tale that was not going to have a happy ending. She could not, would not, agree to marry Connor, couldn't face a future of waiting for the inevitable when he would begin to shift, change, start to treat her like a helpless child. And it would happen. That was a given. Connor, she mused on, had apparently accepted her refusal to marry him and had no intention of attempting to change her mind. He'd declared his love for her endlessly through the past week, but had stopped short of speaking of their having a future together. Connor knew, as she did, that they were living on borrowed time, creating memories to keep until they had to say their final goodbyes. A farewell that would mean she would cry in the darkness in the lonely nights that followed. Mary-Clair sniffled. She was thoroughly depressing herself, she thought, getting to her feet. Enough of this. The workday was at an end. It was time to go home. To Connor. Mary-Clair took her purse from the bottom drawer of the desk just as her law partner, Jessica, appeared in the doorway. "I'm off," she said. "Are you and Connor doing anything special tonight?" "We're going to watch Casablanca on television," Mary-Clair said, smiling. "Connor will laugh himself silly when I weep at the icky ending." She paused. "Maybe I shouldn't watch that movie. It will only remind me that I'm going to cry buckets when my romantic interlude is over." "Mary-Clair..." "Jessica, don't start," she said, crossing the room. "There's nothing anyone can say to change my stand. I will not marry a man who is six-foot-three. It's a disaster waiting to happen and...I refuse to discuss this again. Good night." Jessica threw up her hands in defeat. "Good night, Mary-Clair." When Mary-Clair parked behind Connor's car in the driveway, her heart began to race in anticipation. She hurried across the lawn and went into the house to find Connor standing in the middle of the living room, a serious expression on his face. She went to where he stood, looking up at him questioningly. "Connor?" she said. "What's wrong? You look as though you just lost your best friend."
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"Well put," he said quietly, drawing his thumb over one of Mary-Clair's cheeks. "Mary-Clair, my aunt Esther just telephoned. My cousin is doing fine now. Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill will be returning home tomorrow."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Mary-Clair felt as though the world had suddenly tilted on its axis. She reached out a shaking hand to grip the arm of an easy chair, then moved on trembling legs to sink onto it. "Tomorrow?" she said, her voice seeming to come from far, far away. "Esther and Bill will be here...tomorrow?" Connor pulled a matching chair in front of Mary-Clair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, then taking her hands in his. "Mary-Clair," he said, looking directly into her eyes, "we knew this was going to happen...my aunt and uncle returning home. I'm grateful that my cousin and the baby are all right, but I wish we... Listen to me. This week, this incredibly fantastic week we've shared, must have shown you that we are compatible beyond measure. We're so connected, so in tune, so... We're in love with each other. We're soul mates who are meant to be together forever." "Connor, I..." "Haven't I proven to you that I'd never do anything to diminish your worth as a woman?" Connor went on, a slightly frantic edge to his voice. "Don't I treat you as an equal partner in our relationship? Can't you see that what we have together is far more important than how tall, or how short, we might be? Ah, Mary-Clair, please. Say you'll marry me, be my wife and the mother of the miracles that will be the children we'll create. I love you so much. Please, Mary-Clair." Her heart, Mary-Clair thought, as a sob caught in her throat, was shattering into a million pieces. She was so cold, chilled to the very core of her being because...because it was over. The fantasy had ended. The last frame of the romantic movie had played and now the screen was dark, so very dark. "Mary-Clair?" Connor said, his voice husky with emotion as he tightened his hold on her hands. "Please?" As though watching from outside her own body, Mary-Clair saw herself pull her hands free from Connor's, push back the chair, and get to her feet, tears spilling onto her pale cheeks. "No. No, I can't marry you, Connor," she said, then took a sob-filled breath. "I can't bear the thought of waiting, waiting, waiting for you to begin to change, start treating me like a..." She shook her head as tears closed her throat. Connor lunged to his feet and gripped her shoulders. "Don't throw us away, Mary-Clair. Trust me, believe in me and my love for you. I'm begging you. Don't do this." "I have to," she said, sobbing openly as she twisted out of his grasp. "I have no choice because I know, I know what will eventually happen and... No, Connor, I love you so much but I can't, I won't marry you. I'm going to pack and go to my apartment now, tonight. I'm going home, Connor, where I belong. Alone."
CHAPTER NINETEEN The following week was a study in misery for Mary-Clair and she was, she knew, performing as an attorney practically by rote. Late in the afternoon of the eighth day since her heart, she was convinced, had crumbled into dust, MaryClair sat at her desk in the office. She leaned her head back against the top of the chair and closed her eyes, willing threatening tears to not spill over...again.
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Dear heaven, she thought, she missed Connor so much. Ached for him. Wanted to see his smile, feel his touch, inhale his aroma. How long would this pain last? How long would she weep for all that might have been, but would never be? Oh, Connor. "Mary-Clair," Esther said, appearing in the doorway, "there's a delivery here that you have to sign for, dear." Mary-Clair raised her head. "Delivery? I didn't order anything, Esther. There must be some mistake." Esther shrugged. "Well, you best talk to this man who wants your signature and explain that he has the wrong Mary-Clair Cavelli." "Who is at this address, according to the delivery slip," Jessica said, peering over Esther's shoulder. "I don't need this hassle," Mary-Clair said, getting to her feet. She stomped around her desk, and Esther and Jessica stepped quickly out of her determined-to-end-thisnonsense way. The moment that Mary-Clair entered the small reception area she stopped so fast she teetered. The space was filled with seven boxes of various sizes. "Mary-Clair Cavelli?" a man in a brown uniform said. "Sign here, please, ma'am." "What is all this?" she said, sweeping one arm through the air. "I didn't order seven...whatever they are. Take them back with you." "Sorry, ma'am," the man said, "but I can't do that. If there's a problem, you'll have to fix it with whoever sent the stuff." Mumbling under her breath, Mary-Clair scribbled her name on the paper attached to a clipboard, then the man beat a hasty retreat. Jessica and Esther came to stand on either side of a frowning Mary-Clair, who leaned over and looked at one of the shipping labels. "The Everything Store," she read. "I've never even heard of it, let alone ordered seven...somethings from there. Now what do I do?" "Open them," Esther said. "That will give you more data when you call the store to explain there was an error." "Good idea," Jessica said. "Go for it, Mary-Clair." Mary-Clair sighed wearily, then tugged at the edge of the flap on the top of the tallest carton. Ten minutes later she planted her hands on her hips and swept her gaze over the bounty. "Strange," she said. "Seven step stools painted bright, primary colors, each a different height. Seven." "Wrong, Mary-Clair," Connor said, as he entered the office. He was carrying a yellow stool with three steps and set it on the floor directly in front of him. "There are eight."
CHAPTER TWENTY Mary-Clair's eyes widened and her heart began to beat in a wild tempo as she drank in the sight of Connor O'Shea. "Connor?" she said, not totally convinced he was actually standing there.
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"Yes, Mary-Clair," he said, no readable expression on his face. "It's me. It has taken me this long to have all these stools custom-made to my specifications after I carefully measured distances from your height to the top cupboard in a kitchen, a closet shelf, the overhead storage compartment in an airplane, and on the list goes." Jessica and Esther eased into Jessica's office and closed the door...almost...leaving a two-inch gap. "But why?" Mary-Clair said, sweeping her confused gaze over the stools. "Just to make things easier for you if you want to use them," he said. "It doesn't diminish who you are as a woman, it's simply a thoughtful gesture on my part. And this stool?" He gestured to the bright yellow one at his feet. "It will bring you eye-level with me, make you my equal physically as you already are emotionally and intellectually. This stool is for when you want to kiss me, Mary-Clair. You can use it at the altar when we get married if you choose to." "I..." Mary-Clair started. "Oh, Mary-Clair," Connor said, his voice husky, "don't you see? I love and respect you. You. The woman. My love for you has nothing to do with how tall, or short, you might be. Please marry me, be my wife and the mother of our children. Don't allow the pain you suffered in the past because of insensitive men rob us of our happiness now, of our future together." Mary-Clair drew a shuddering breath, her mind whirling. "Listen to me," Connor went on. "I shot up to six-foot-three when I was only 14 years old. From then on everyone expected more from me than I was capable of giving. They thought I should be more mature, more intelligent, more proficient at sports, just because I was tall. "I would have given anything back then to be the same size as my friends. I understand what you've been saying, believe me, I do. We've walked the same path in the past, which gives us an edge as we travel into the future...together." "Connor, I..." "Ah, Mary-Clair," he said, a catch in his voice, "please. Marry me." He extended his arms toward her. "Ti voglio bene." "Oh, Connor," Mary-Clair said, smiling through her tears, "I love you, too, and...and yes, yes, yes, I'll marry you." Mary-Clair ran across the room, up the steps of the pretty yellow stool and flung herself into Connor's embrace. Just as Jessica and Esther peeked out the doorway of Jessica's office, then exchanged satisfied smiles, Connor captured Mary-Clair's lips in a kiss of commitment, a kiss that spoke of their future together, of love that would last...forever.
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Kissing Cupid by Holly Jacobs We gave five authors from five different Harlequin and Silhouette series the same opening paragraph, and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The result is five very distinctive individual stories that are compelling, engaging and, of course, romantic Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| Chapter One (This is the opening paragraph the eHarlequin.com editors gave to all five authors:) Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. "John! I thought you were dead!" "The kids still aren?t over your disappearance." She continued. "They missed Christmas. I got them that dog you promised them, but it wasn?t the same. They named him Funeral, since we never had one for you. We call him Fun for short. But... wait a minute. You?re not dead and you?re kissing that...that..." "Watch it, Charlotte." John looked fierce, despite the fact that he was wearing little gauzy wings pinned to the back of his black turtleneck sweater. Without the wings, his dark hair and eyes ? along with the sweater ? might manage menacing, but with the wings... Charlie Martin simply laughed. "My fiancé only calls me Charlotte when he?s annoyed," she said to the woman John had been kissing. "Which means I call her that most of the time since she?s one of the most annoying people you?ll ever meet," he said. No, said wasn?t the right word. Growled. Yep, that was closer to his tone. Charlie grinned, and the woman John had been playing tongue hockey with said, "If you?ll both excuse me. I think there?s been some mistake." "You bet there has been," Charlie said. "After all my poor kids and their little basset hound, Fun?and it?s all a mistake. They should have named the dog Dodger. After all, that?s what you did, isn?t it, John? You dodged your commitments by pretending to be dead. I gave you the best years of my life and you promised over and over again to marry me, but ran away without me getting my ring. I gave you a son and a daughter. I ?"
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"She?s already gone, so you can cut the act, Charlotte." "Oops, there?s that name again." Charlie giggled. "What on earth possessed you?" He asked. The growl was back, but it didn?t intimidate Charlie at all. As a matter of fact, she giggled again. "Why, you came to the party with me ? you?re even my pretend fiancé for the evening. Then I come out here to catch a breath of fresh air, and all I really catch is you playing tie-the-cherry-stem with another woman. It doesn?t do my ego or my headache any good, let me tell you." "Playing your fiancé wasn?t my idea. You wanted to keep Stanley Duncan at a distance. And you made me come and fill in for your missing DJ." "I didn?t really make you. You lost the bet." "You cheat. And not only that, you made me dress up like this..." He turned for emphasis, gesturing at the small set of wings. "Captain Cupid. What a stupid idea." "Mr. Duncan?s brother, Stanley, has hounded me throughout every stage of planning this party. I couldn?t exactly tell Stan 'the Hand' Duncan I didn?t want to date him because of his reptilian personality, so telling him I had a fiancé was a good plan. Having you pretend to be the fiancé was a better plan. And the Duncans wanted a four-piece orchestra for the party, but their daughter Michelle wanted a DJ and she won. Since it?s Valentines, Captain Cupid was a great idea, if I do say so myself. But the outfit would have been cuter with the tights I bought you." "Listen, I may have lost the bet, so I?m stuck playing your fiancé and Cupid for your party ? I?m even wearing these," he gestured towards the wings on his back. "But I have to draw the line somewhere and tights are my line." "Well, they would have completed the outfit, but the wings and the bow and arrow are cute enough, I guess." "Cute? I hate being cute," he muttered. "I know, I know. It?s such a curse. You?d prefer being ruggedly handsome, or with dark, intriguing good looks. And you manage both most of time, but when you?re wearing wings, I?m afraid you?re just cute." "You?re perverse tonight, you know that?" "Hey, my fiancé, the one I thought was dead, was sucking face with another woman. And you know what they say? All?s fair in love and war." "Ah, but we?re not really in love; we?re just pretending." His eyes pinned hers. For a moment, just a fleeting second, Charlie thought she saw something in his look, something new that she didn?t quite recognize. But it was gone in an instant and she was left wishing he?d had a different response, even though she knew better. John was her buddy. Her pal. He seemed to use those words ? buddy, pal, even friend ? for emphasis an awful lot, as if he wanted to constantly remind her that he wasn?t her lover. She remembered well enough by herself, thank you very much and drat the luck.
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She?d lusted after John for years. This last year they?d moved beyond casual acquaintances and become close friends That?s when she discovered what she felt for him was more than lust, it was love. Not that he noticed. Men. They could be so dense. "You?re right, we?re just pretending, but you should be able to control yourself for just a few hours," she said. "Like I said, you suckered me into this." "It was a bet. Fair and square." "You cheated." "Prove it." She placed her hands on her hips and grinned. "You stacked the deck." She clutched her heart for a dramatic touch. "John, I?m crushed to the core. To the very foundation of my soul. First you suck face with another woman and then you have the nerve to call me a cheat? What next?" "Come on, Charlie. Let me out of this costume. I mean, it?s your fault I was being kissed." "My fault? You weren?t kissing her of your own free volition?" "No. Women have been chasing me all night. It seems half the Duncans? guests are single women." "You?re here to entertain the guests, to spin CDs ? not to spin women. It?s not like you don?t have enough women." John dated a lot. He never dated one woman for long, though. But come to think of it, Charlie couldn?t think of any woman he?d dated recently. What was up with that? "All women are desperate on Valentine?s Day," he stated, as if he?d done some major study on the situation. "Maybe, or maybe you?re just too cute to resist." "Either way, I want out of these wings..." Chapter Two Charlie didn?t listen to his plea for a wingless existence, which is why John Barrister found himself back at the mike...wings still attached. "Captain Cupid?s back at the turntable, ready to take requests and turn your thoughts to love," John said into the microphone. Actually, though he?d never admit it to Charlie, he thought he had a flair for DJing. If his career as a financial advisor ever fell through, maybe he?d give it a try for real...but without the wings. He slipped Celine Dion into the player and listened to her mournful love song waft through the speakers as the Duncans and their guests partied. "Hey there, Cupid. I have a request," a throaty voice said from behind him.
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John turned, ready to fend off another ardent admirer. He?d certainly had enough propositions tonight, but unfortunately the only woman he wanted didn?t seem to notice he wanted her. No, she cheated at cards, dressed him up like Cupid, and ordered him around, but didn?t show the slightest sign of being attracted to him. "Sure, what can I play for you?" he said to the brunette in a slinky black dress and fishnet stockings. "It?s not what you can play for me, but rather what you can play with me, if you like...and I guarantee you?ll like." Yep, he was right, another proposition. Valentine?s Day was rapidly becoming the worst day of the year, in John?s book at least. "Sorry, I?m spoken for," he said, hoping to ward off a more aggressive assault. "Yeah? I don?t see any ring on your finger, or woman at your side," she said, stepping closer. John would have stepped back, but there was a table in his way. Miss Fishnet licked her lips in a way that made John even more nervous. "My girl..." he tried to think of some plausible explanation and finally hit on: "My fianceé, she?s the one running this party. Parties, Inc. is hers. I?m working just so I could spend some time with her on Valentines Day." It wasn?t even his lie, it was Charlie?s. He congratulated himself as Miss Fishnet took a step back. "Too bad she?s working so hard," he continued, on a roll. "I?d love to get her out on the dance floor, but I?ve had my 10 minute break and am stuck here playing CDs for the night." "I could fill in for a few minute if you?d like to dance with her," a new voice offered. A man with a slightly receding hairline had joined them. John recognized him immediately. It was Stan "the Hand" Duncan. "You want to take over here so I can go dance with my fiancée?" he asked, putting a heavy emphasis on the fiancée part. "Well, after the way Charlie?s talked about you, I would like to see you two in action...on the dance floor." There was more than a bit of a sneer in his voice. Charlie was right, the man was reptilian, but obviously Miss Fishnet didn?t mind. Stan the Hand patted her bottom and she actually giggled. "Maybe you?d help?" the Hand asked her. "Well, I..." she glanced from John to Stan the Hand and suddenly smiled. "I think I can manage to help if you want to dance with your girl. It?s Valentine?s Day, after all. Go on, we?ve got things under control." Trapped by his lie, but wanting to show the Hand just how off-limits Charlie was, John simply said, "Well, thanks," and forced a smile of gratitude on his face. "Hey, wait a minute," said Miss Fishnet. "Let me get rid of those wings. It?s hard to woo a woman when you?re sporting fairy wings." "Yeah, you?ve got to wonder what a woman sees in a man who wears fairy wings," the Hand muttered.
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"They?re not fairy wings, they?re Cupid wings, but either way, I wouldn?t mind losing them." Miss Fishnet unpinned the wings and gave him a small slug. "There you are. Go get her." "Thanks." The CD ended and the Hand said, "Captain Cupid?s taking a small break. I?m Stanley and this is..." he paused waiting. "Gloria." "My sidekick, Gloria. We?ll be filling in. Let?s start with this..." "You Are So Beautiful" started. John spotted Charlie across the room and fought his way through the crowd until he was at her side. "Hey, want to dance?" "What are you up to now?" she asked, suspicion evident in her expression. "Nothing. Stan the Hand came over and offered to let me dance with my woman." "Which woman would that be? There are so many." It was an opening for John to confess that there was only one woman for him. There?d only been one for a very long time, but unfortunately she only saw him as a pal. "I think the Hand wants to see us together, make sure he doesn?t have a chance with you after all. And I?m your date for tonight, remember? I mean, I?d be afraid to dance with another woman after the way you reacted on the deck." "Dance with whoever you want," she said as she turned away. John caught her by the shoulder. He stared into those beautiful blue eyes as he softly said, "There?s only one woman here I want to dance with." Chapter Three John led her onto the dance floor before Charlie could think of an argument against it. She couldn?t tell him that dancing with him meant she had to touch him, and touching John...well, it just made her remember how much she?d like to be more than just his friend. Wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, she knew she would almost be able to believe that they were more than they were. But she knew the music would stop, just as it always did, and the illusion would end. She?d go back to being good ol? Charlie, John?s buddy and pal. "Really," she said, just before his arms encircled her. "I don?t have time for this. There are a thousand and one details to look after. It?s a coming out party, and at any moment a dozen or more details could fall apart. That?s why people like the Duncans hire me." "I don?t think the world will fall apart if you take two minutes to dance with me." The world? No.
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But Charlie wondered if she might fall apart right there in his arms. Just another party planner biting the dust. But she looked at John and couldn?t think of any way to back out of dancing with him. "Fine," she said, in her most ungracious response. His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her tight. "There. That?s not so bad, is it?" Not bad at all, she thought, inhaling the scent of him, warm and spicy. He didn?t just smell warm, he felt warm and she snuggled closer to his heat. "Charlie?" he asked, obviously waiting for some response. "No, not so bad. You haven?t stepped on my feet...yet." "Hey, I?m a good dancer. You can ask any woman ?" "Hmm, want to alphabetize the list for me so I can poll them?" she asked, her voice muffled against his sweater. "There are so many, after all." "Come on. I don?t date that many women." "Every time I turn around you?re spouting off some new name." "Maybe I?m just making up names, hoping you?ll be jealous." Charlie tried to contain her laughter. John wanting to make her jealous? That would be the day. "Why on earth would you want to do that? You?re a ? a friend." She spat out the word as if it were almost a curse. Not that she didn?t treasure John?s friendship. She did. But she ached for more. "Yeah," he said, though he didn?t sound any more thrilled with the description of their relationship than she did. "Hey, if you want to end the friendship, just say the word." If he said the word, her heart would break, but maybe that would be better. Get all the pain over with at once, rather than breaking it a little each time she saw him, every time he mentioned another woman. "You?re tired of our friendship?" he countered. "I?m...I?m..." What she wanted to say was, I?m tired of just a friendship ? I want more. But coward that she was, she couldn?t force the words past her constricted larynx, so she settled for, "I?ve got to get back to work." She turned and started walking across the dance floor. What she should have said was, I have to get out of your arms before I decide to stay and never leave. "Oh, no you don?t," John said, following right on Charlie?s heels. He took her hand and pulled her toward the patio. "Come on, we?re going to settle this." He shut the sliding glass door and was grateful to see they had the patio to themselves. "Now, what was that about?" "What? I don?t know what you mean."
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"Sure you do. You?re not looking me in the eye, and the only time you do that is when you?re hiding something. I?ve sensed that there was something you?ve wanted to tell me for a long time and I?m not leaving until I find out what it is." She yanked her hand from his and rubbed it against her pants, as if he had some case of childhood cooties she was afraid of catching. "Listen, John, maybe you can bully the other women you date, but you can?t bully me. We?ve been friends too long for that to work." "I don?t bully the women I date." "Ah, there you are. You deny bullying them, but don?t deny that there are a lot of women." "I never said there were," he argued. "I do though. Let?s see, there was the receptionist at the bank, the popcorn girl you met when you took me to the movies." Charlie didn?t mention that it was poor form to flirt with a popcorn girl while you were taking another woman to the movies...even if that other woman was only a friend. Of course, the popcorn girl had given them extra butter, but Charlie could barely force herself to eat the popcorn, so it didn?t really matter to her. "Shall I go on?" she asked. "No," he said, back to his almost growling tone. "Listen, I don?t know why we?re fighting about the women you date. It?s not as if it matters to me." Oh, that was a lie. A whopper of a lie. She was going to have to wash her own mouth out with soap for all the lying she was doing. "I haven?t dated anyone in about nine months." Chapter Four Talk about lying. Maybe she should send John some soap for Valentine?s Day. "Come on. Tell me another one," she said, laughing. "Nope, nine months. And that last date was...well, let?s just say unsatisfying. I decided that I wasn?t going to date again until I found a woman who really mattered." "You?re joking." "No. And I could point out that you haven?t dated for even longer than that." "My business keeps me busy." "Not too busy to see me, though. Right?" "Are you complaining?" she asked.
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"No. I?m just wondering how it is you?re busy schedule leaves you time to hang with me, and not enough time to date?" "You?re a friend. I can?t say no when you call and ask me if I want to hang ? it wouldn?t be very friendly, now would it?" John was looking at her in a very uncomfortable way. Charlie suddenly felt almost naked under his scrutiny ? and if she was going to be naked under something of John?s, his scrutiny wasn?t what she had in mind. "What is this? The third degree?" "No, I?m suddenly realizing that maybe I?m not alone." "Of course you?re not alone, you fool. I?m right here with you. We?re friends." "We are, aren?t we?" "Of course." "And you don?t like that I date other women?" he asked slowly. "I think you need to settle down with one rather than flitting between them like some butterfly trying to choose a flower." "Butterfly? That?s not a very manly analogy. I mean, after making me wear Cupid wings, manly might be the way to go for a while till I recover." "Even with Cupid wings you look manly." And even slimy popcorn girls and the knowledge that John only saw her as a friend couldn?t make Charlie stop loving him, even though there was no hope he?d ever love her back. Oh, darn, there he was, making her feel naked again with the way he was looking at her. What a stupid thing to say. "I mean, other women find you manly no matter what you?re wearing. To me, you?re just John, my buddy, my pal." Buddy. Pal. She normally didn?t have trouble remembering that was just what John was. Just a friend. But tonight was different. Maybe it was just a case of Valentine longing. Or maybe it was the fact that he looked so cute in his wings. Either way, she?d forgotten, but she was over her memory lapse as of this moment. She met John?s gaze and stared right back at him, and as her insides turned to gelatin, she cursed. She wasn?t over her lapse. She would never be over it. She was officially, permanently lapsed over John. Most of the time she could pretend she wasn?t, but tonight she seemed to be having problems. "Charlie?" John said, his voice low and rumbly. It wasn?t a growl this time. It was something else. Something she?d never heard in his voice. It almost sounded like desire. But no. Friends didn?t desire friends. Occasionally friends shared a meal, a video, or even popcorn, but they didn?t share desire. She gave herself a mental shake and forced a smile on her face, though she worried her face might crack. "Yes, John?"
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"Remember when I said I hadn?t dated in nine months?" "Yeah." "Well, I lied." Chapter Five "Aha. I knew you had to be lying, that you couldn?t go nine months without a woman." She?d been right. Not that it made her feel pleased. As a matter of fact, Charlie felt...rather depressed. The sort of depression that even a couple pounds of chocolate couldn?t soothe. "Well, thanks for telling me. Now, if you don?t mind, I have a party to see to, and you have a pair of wings waiting for you." He grabbed her arm. "Wait a minute. I need to tell you about the woman I?m dating." "That?s okay. You can tell me later." Like when hell froze over. "No, I need to tell you. You see, she?s special. I haven?t told her yet, but she means the world to me. But there?s a problem." "A problem?" Charlie tried to keep from smiling. Problems were good. Maybe Ms. Wonderful had warts, or some horrible skin condition. Or better yet, maybe she was moving to Europe. No, make that Siberia. Oh, yeah, she bet John?s foxy Ms. Wonderful wouldn?t look so hot wrapped in layers of fur to fight off the Siberian cold. It was hard to be a babe when you were all bundled up. "You see," he said, "she doesn?t know we?re dating." Of all the things Charlie expected to hear, this wasn?t one of them. "What? How do you date someone without them knowing?" "Well, I take her out to the movies and to dinners. We hang out together around our apartments just sharing a meal or watching a video. We talk a couple times a day on the phone. She thinks we?re just friends." Dawning awareness suddenly struck Charlie like an arrow hitting its mark and she swallowed hard. "You and this woman, you?re not just friends?" "Oh, no. I didn?t even realize we were dating until tonight, but that?s what we?ve been doing. A quiet sort of courtship that snuck up on both of us. We?re both so used to just being friends that we didn?t realize we were more." "We...I mean, you are? How much more?" "Charlie, do you think I?d wear fairy wings ?" "They?re Cupid wings." "? for just anyone?" Charlie struggled to breathe normally ? there seemed to be something huge growing in the center of her chest that impeded her oxygen flow. "John, I don?t know what to say." "Say you agree. Say we?re dating, that we have been dating for months, even if we didn?t realize it."
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"Dating, huh?" The something grew bigger. "Dating. Once you?re used to the idea, we?ll talk about the next step." "You think there?s going to be another step after dating? You?ve never had another step before." The something burst and a warm flow of love flooded Charlie?s system. Love. She?d been bottling it up for so long, and finally she was free to admit it. She loved this man ? this man she?d been dating for months without even realizing it. "Neither have you. And neither of us has dated without knowing before, so I think it?s safe to say this relationship is unique, so it?s bound to have another step. As a matter of fact, you know the non-Cupid role you have me playing tonight?" "You mean the DJ?" she asked hesitantly. "No. The fiancé role." He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "I think we might want to talk about gambling again on making it real sometime soon. You cheat, so we?re bound to get a winning hand." "I don?t cheat," she said. "You?re just a horrible card player." "Before we argue about your cheating, I think there?s something that absolutely must be next on our list." "What's that?" He wrapped his arms around her, tighter than they had when they were dancing. This time she didn?t try to ignore how good he felt, how good he smelled, how right being in his arms seemed. No, she didn?t ignore it at all. She reveled in it. "Kiss me," he said. Gently their lips met. Tentative at first, then their introduction changed rapidly to something hotter as they stood locked in each other?s embrace, lost in the moment. "Wow," Charlie murmured when they finally parted. "Yeah, wow." John grinned. "So now what?" "Well, we finish off this party and maybe afterward we go on a date that we?re both cognizant of." "You?re on." She studied him a moment. Studied this amazing man who?d finally seen her, had realized she?d been waiting for him all this time. She grinned and asked, "And speaking of on...where are your wings?" "Come on, Charlotte, you can?t be serious about making me wear them." "Hey, it?s good to know you still plan to call me Charlotte when I annoy you, even though we?re dating." "I?m sure I?ll call you Charlotte a lot, even though we?re dating. You?re an annoying woman." "Yeah, I am." She grinned. "Good thing I seem to be attracted to annoying women."
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"Good thing for you that I seem to be attracted to guys who wear fairy wings." "Cupid wings," he said, a mock-growl in his voice this time. "Which you aren?t seriously going to make me put back on, are you? After all, I rescued you from Stan the Hand. I think he?s gone for good." "Really?" "He was looking pretty tight with Miss Fishnet out on the dance floor." "Who?" "I?ll tell you later. After the party when I take you out on a date," he said. Just like that. So casual. When I take you out on a date. "On a real date?" Charlie laughed when he nodded. "Wow, this is a Valentine's Day to remember... Speaking of remembering, let?s talk about those wings." "Charlotte!" Charlie smiled as she continued arguing about Cupid wings with John. Some things might change, and realizing she was dating John was a change for the better. But as she watched him sputter about her cheating at cards and the unfairness of wearing Cupid wings, she realized some things would never change ? and that was good, too. What a Valentine's Day, she thought as she silenced John by kissing him, her own personal Cupid, again. "Now, let?s go find those wings...."
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JUST ONE KISS by Jessica Hart When Caroline Taylor tells her friends that she's spotted the man she's going to marry, they make her a bet: She must get the gorgeous single dad to kiss her, just once. But sometimes, destiny needs a helping hand. Caro thinks the best way to bond with Anthony Gilchrist is to strike up a conversation about their children — despite the fact that she doesn't actually have any kids of her own! The solution: she'll simply "borrow" her nephew for an afternoon in the park, the same park where Anthony takes his little boy.…
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE There he was. The man she was going to marry. She wished. Caro hesitated by the entrance to the playground, hardly able to believe that Anthony — could that really be his name? — was exactly where he had been the day before. Yesterday he had been over by the swings, today he was helping his little boy up the steps to the slide, but apart from that he was exactly the same. Same jacket, same child, same rugged good looks. Same gorgeous body. Same smile that made her go weak at the knees. "Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Kate, who had come with Bella to see if Caro really would go through with it. "You said that all you needed was a child and you could get to know him easily," Bella reminded Caro of her confident assertion the day before. "He's a single father, you said. According to you, parks are classic meeting places for people with children, and it ought to be easy to take advantage of that if only you had the right props." "It's true," insisted Caro. "Apparently they all get to bond over shared stories of parenthood. We were talking about doing an article about it in Glitz the other day. Ten Top Tips on Where to Find a Man…you know the kind of thing. The journalist reckoned that going into a playground with a child was like walking a dog — you've got something in common right from the start." "I've heard that about dog walking before," said Kate gloomily. "It never worked for me. I only ever meet old men with Jack Russells." Bella waved Kate's experiences aside. "Well, now you've got your child," she said to Caro, nodding down at the pushchair. "Didn't your sister mind you taking Jake off for the afternoon?" "Are you kidding? She practically pushed us out of the door when I offered her a couple of hours to herself!" Wriggling her skirt around, Caro smoothed it down. "Do I look like a mummy?" Bella looked at her friend. There was something vivid about Caro, with her bright face and her glossy, nutcolored hair and her sparkling brown eyes. In a blatant attempt to attract the unknown Anthony's interest, she wore a short red skirt that showed off her legs, and fabulous shoes with kitten heels and pointed toes and irresistible bows on the front.
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"Not in those shoes," she said. Caro was momentarily downcast, but she shrugged and took a firm grip of the pushchair. "Well, it's too late to change them now. Right, this is it. I'm off to meet my destiny." Shimmying her bottom, she grinned cockily over her shoulder as she headed for the entrance to the playground. "And to win my bet!" Pushing Jake in what she hoped was a casual manner over toward the swings, Caro kept an eye on Anthony and his son. Tom, Phoebe had said the little boy's name was. She had been sent into the playground yesterday after the lighthearted bet they had made to see whether the man of Caro's dreams was wearing a wedding ring or not. "No ring," she had reported when she came back. "And he's called Anthony." "Anthony?" Caro had echoed in disappointment. With those rugged looks and the dark rumpled hair and that smile guaranteed to set a female heart doing hand springs, he ought by rights to be called something heroic. Max, perhaps. Jack. Nick. A hard, masculine, macho name. How could her destiny be called Anthony? "Are you sure?" "Well, that's what the little boy called him," Phoebe said. "He's obviously one of those trendy fathers who don't like being called Daddy. Sweet little boy, too. Tom, his name is. He looks just like him. There's no mistaking the relationship." There wasn't. Caro could see it for herself now that she was closer. Tom was a miniature version of his father. He looked about three to her inexpert eye, and he was clambering self-importantly up the slide, while Anthony — how could someone so totally gorgeous be called something so bland? — kept a watchful eye on him. Of course, it was good that he was such a devoted parent, but if he was that absorbed in his child, how was he going to notice her? Fortunately, it wasn't long before Tom was off to clamber over the wooden train, and Anthony sat down on a nearby bench. Caro took her opportunity. Maneuvering the pushchair smartly into place before anyone else had the same idea, she dug around in the bag her sister had slung over the back of the pushchair and located Jake's mug. "Do you mind if we sit here?" she asked Anthony, would-be careless, as if she had only just noticed that he was there. He looked up at her briefly and she was struck by how blue his eyes were. The deep, dark blue of the ocean, and dark hair. Ooh, gorgeous. "Not at all," he said. And a lovely deep rich voice, with just a hint of something Celtic — Scottish? Irish? — to it. By rights he should have an unpronounceable name with lots of "b"s and "h"s and accents in odd places. Perhaps Phoebe had been wrong about Anthony, she thought hopefully. She studied Anthony under her lashes as she offered Jake his drink. Anthony was sitting with his jacket hunched up around his shoulders against the chill wind, long legs stretched out in front of him. Close up, he wasn't quite as good-looking as he had seemed from a distance, but he had a humorous, intelligent face with a lot of laughter lines fanning the edges of his eyes. Caro had always had a weakness for those.
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It was a lived-in kind of face, she decided approvingly. He had dark brows, a big nose, and just a hint of stubble along the strong jaw that with those gorgeous blue eyes gave him a faintly piratical look.… Caro had to bite back a sigh of sheer pleasure. He might have been designed for her! "I bet you anything I can get him to ask me out on a date," she had claimed grandly to her three housemates as she gazed longingly at him from the other side of the fence. But a date hadn't been enough of a challenge for Phoebe, Kate and Bella. If Caro really wanted to show them what she could do, they had decided, she had to kiss him as well. "And no mealy-mouthed peck on the cheek!" Kate had warned. "It's got to be a proper kiss." Laughing, Caro had taken the bet. It had been a joke at first, as they capped each other's outrageous suggestions, but when the penalty for coming away with no date and no kiss had been set at cleaning the kitchen for the next month, she had all the incentive she needed. And now here she was, sitting only inches away from him, and he was so solid and so real and so bonemeltingly attractive that the mere thought of kissing him dried the breath in her throat. Just one kiss… That was the bet. Could she do it? CHAPTER TWO How was Caro going to get Anthony to kiss her? She stole another look at him. There was a faint smile hovering around his mouth as he watched his son holding his ground in the face of attempts by several other children to drive the train, and the thought of touching those lips with her own sent a little shiver down her spine. She could hardly launch herself along the bench at him, appealing as that thought might be, so somehow she was going to have to attract his attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Kate and Bella on the other side of the playground fence making "get on with it" gestures. Caro glared at them. Why didn't they try something more subtle, like holding up a flashing neon sign saying "Anthony, my friend fancies you!"? Although, come to think of it, the direct approach had its attractions. Really, life had been much easier for Victorian spinsters, she reflected glumly. They could just drop a handkerchief strategically and the gentleman in question would pick it up with the perfect excuse to start a conversation. They hadn't had to borrow nephews to strike up an acquaintance with a handsome stranger. Still, she wouldn't fancy Anthony in muttonchop whiskers, so perhaps she was better off in the twenty-first century after all. It was time to pull herself together. The man of her dreams was mere inches away, and she would never have a better chance of getting noticed by him. All she had to do was think of something witty and original to say to get him interested. "Umm…lovely day," she said, cringing inwardly at the banality of it. Surely she ought to be able to do better than that? She was supposed the ultimate party girl. Caro's such fun, they always said. Caro's such a laugh. At least he was looking at her. "Cold, though, isn't it?" she went on quickly before he had a chance to look away.
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That was it; astound him with her sparkling conversational skills. Caro sighed to herself. How was he going to be able to resist banter like that? But, wait! He wasn't turning away with a yawn of boredom. The navy blue eyes were traveling down to her legs. "I imagine it's pretty chilly in that skirt, anyway," he said, and there was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice and a gleam in his eyes as they came back to her face that sent Caro's internal heating soaring. Suddenly she wasn't cold at all. A faint frown was creasing Anthony's brow as he studied her. "Do you come here often?" he asked and then stopped with an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry, that sounds like the worst pick-up line in the world, doesn't it?" It was fine by Caro. He could say what he wanted as long as he kept on smiling like that. "It's just that you look vaguely familiar," he said. "I'm wondering where I've seen you before." Probably ogling him over the fence yesterday. Not that she wanted him making that connection. "Perhaps we've passed each other before," she said vaguely, but at least it gave her an opening to be nosy. "Do you live round here?" He nodded. "Just over there." He pointed casually toward a part of town the estate agents always described as much sought-after. It was an area Caro and the others frequently fantasized about moving to, but as these fantasies inevitably involved finding a man whose emotional stability and financial security matched his hunky body and lack of beard/overlong sideburns/morbid fear of commitment, none of them had got any closer than Tooting. "What about you?" he asked. "Oh, the other side," said Caro with an airy wave that managed to suggest that Phoebe's house practically opened onto the park, as opposed to being a good half-hour's walk away and in a very much less exclusive part of town. Anthony had turned his attention to Jake. "How old is he?" Caro had a moment of frantic calculation. Jake had been one not that long ago. She had bought him a pair of supercool sunglasses and a hat that had made her sister roll her eyes. "Er…fourteen months," she said, aware that a real mother would probably have known his age to the day. "It's a nice age, isn't it?" "Oh, yes," said Caro, who had no idea. "Lovely." "I know it's not very macho," Anthony confessed, "but I really like babies." Really, he was too good to be true. It was almost spooky. "You never have that same sense of wonder again, do you?" And the feeling wasn't going away. Physically he might be everything that sent her "bloke awareness" register off the scale, but he seemed so nice, too. "You must be very proud of him," he was saying as Jake threw his mug onto the ground.
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"Oh, I am, I am." Caro beamed at her nephew as she retrieved the mug, mentally promising him an extra-big Christmas present. This was all going suspiciously well. They were chatting away nicely now. Jake had played his part perfectly in establishing contact. Now all she needed to do was let Anthony know that she was unattached. There was no point to this if he assumed that she had a doting husband plus immaculate house, four-wheel drive and dishwasher to go home to. Some men might find the thought gave piquancy to a little flirting, but she got the feeling that Anthony wasn't one of them. So she let out a tiny sigh, with just a hint of martyrdom. "Of course, it isn't easy bringing up a child on your own." "I know," said Anthony with such sympathy that Caro felt a bit guilty for lying. Presumably he did know what it was like. "Are you a single parent, too?" she asked. "I saw you with your little boy." There was a fractional pause before he answered. "Yes, that's Tom. He's three now." "Are you and his mother separated?" There was a lot to be said for this bonding over children thing, Caro reflected. You could ask the most personal questions straight out. Usually when you met a man you had to navigate a minefield of innuendo and evasiveness to establish his relationship history. "We haven't lived together for a long time," he said after a pause that made Caro wonder if she'd got personal a bit too quickly after all. But no, he was responding. "What about you?" This was a tricky one. Why hadn't she thought about this before? She couldn't have him thinking there was some other man complicating matters. For a moment, Caro was tempted to hint at a tragic past, but decided that might all get too intense. On the other hand, she didn't want him to think of her as a sad singleton. CHAPTER THREE If Caro wanted to win that bet, she was going to have to create just the right image — alluring and independent, yet strangely vulnerable and clearly available. Or to put it another way, she was going to have to lie. "It's always just been me and Jake," she told him, and Anthony's brows rose in surprise. "You don't have any contact with his father at all?" "No, he doesn't know about Jake." Too late Caro realized that he might think that she didn't actually know who Jake's father was. That would give quite the wrong impression. No, what she needed was a suggestion of glamour and mystery.… "He's…er…he's got a public profile," she told him, suddenly inspired. "I work for a magazine, and we were over in California doing a lifestyle piece. That's when I met…well, I'd better not say who he is," she said coyly. "I suppose I was swept off my feet." Caro could see it now. There she had been, a naive English girl, bowled over by a superstar, seduced by the sheer glamour of it all.
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"I didn't discover I was pregnant until I got home, and I didn't want to contact him in case he thought I was just trying it on to get maintenance," she finished, rather pleased with herself for this neat ending. Anthony was frowning. "Wouldn't he want to know if he had a child?" He seemed to be serious, Caro thought incredulously. Did he really believe that she was capable of provoking a rush of passion in a film star used to the most beautiful women in the world? "It was my choice to keep Jake," she said, half expecting him to burst out laughing. "I think he'll be better off if I bring him up on my own. I don't want him exposed to that Hollywood lifestyle and too much money," she added virtuously, although personally she would have loved to have had the opportunity of being exposed to it herself. "Jake will want to know who his father is sometime, surely?" Incredibly, Anthony still seemed to be taking the whole issue of Jake's father seriously. "I'll explain when he's old enough to understand," said Caro firmly, anxious to get him off the subject before it all got too complicated. "In the meantime, we just enjoy being together, don't we, Jake?" To her dismay, Jake's face crumpled in response and he began to cry. "What is it?" she asked him, picking him up and joggling him hopefully on her knee. Don't let me down now, she pleaded with him silently. "Perhaps he's bored," suggested Anthony. Great. Just when things were going so well, too! So much for her attempts to look like a serene, competent mother. "Maybe he'd like to feed the ducks," he went on. "I didn't bring any bread with me." More black marks. Everyone knew you took crusts to feed the ducks when you went to the park with a child. "We've got plenty. You can share ours." Caro's plunging spirits did an abrupt wheelie. She could practically hear the screaming skid as the brakes slammed on and they spun round to roar back upward again. "That would be so kind," she said gratefully, as Anthony called Tom over. "Maybe we could buy you and Tom a cup of tea at the café in return?" Not quite cocktails and dinner at Claridges, but it was a start, she supposed. He smiled down at her. "That sounds nice. Ducks first, then tea." Would a cup of tea count as a date? Caro wondered as she watched Anthony and the two little boys throwing crusts at the ducks. And even if it did, she still had the problem of persuading him to kiss her. The boys had been very useful for initiating contact, but there was no denying that now they were decidedly in the way. Clearly another date — minus children — was called for. *** "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves," Anthony suggested when they were sitting at a table outside the café. In spite of the cold, sitting outside seemed a better idea, given that both boys were eating ice creams extremely messily. Caro cupped her hands around her mug of tea to keep warm and averted her eyes from Jake's face.
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"I'm Anthony," he said, and Caro only just stopped herself from saying "I know" in time. "Anthony Gilchrist." "Caroline Taylor — but all my friends call me Caro." She was desperately aware of him as he sat opposite her, one arm slung casually over the back of a chair, the other holding his mug of tea. She tried not to stare, of course, but her eyes kept sliding back toward him, to the quirky line of his mouth, to those fascinating crinkles around his eyes, to the crease in his cheek that deepened when he smiled. In the meantime, she had better stick to her role as single mother. She watched Tom finish his ice cream with gusto. "He's a nice little boy," she said. It was the kind of comment that always went down well with parents. "How often do you see him?" "Most weekends at the moment," Anthony told her, taking a cloth to Tom's face, much to Caro's relief. "Sue — his mother — is trying to finish her thesis at the moment. She started her Ph.D. soon after Tom was born, and it's been really difficult for her to cope with that and a small child, but she's made it this far and only has a few more weeks to go. I take Tom as often as I can to give her a chance to do some work on the weekends." He sounded really proud, Caro noted a touch huffily. Don't say he was one of those men who never really got over their previous relationships, and were always comparing you to their ex. Her heart sank at the thought. She wouldn't last long if he started comparing her with Superbrain Sue. Mind you, if he had a taste for intellectuals, she wouldn't get a chance to last at all. Not much chance of him asking her out if he guessed that her most challenging intellectual activity was an in-depth analysis of the appeal of ER versus, say, CSI: Miami, usually based on the comparative attractiveness of the leading actors. Not that it didn't lead to some extremely stimulating discussions in Phoebe's house. "She must be very clever," said Caro. Rule number one, never show you're jealous of his ex. Especially when you have every reason to be. "Oh, she is." There was an odd undercurrent of laughter in Anthony's voice. "Sue's always been bright. She's not at all practical, though. The house is always a complete tip." Uh-oh. Surely he wasn't obsessed with cleanliness and order as well as his ex? That really would be bad news for Caro. His eyes were very blue as he smiled at her. "What about you?" he asked. "What do you do? You said something about working for a magazine. Are you a journalist?" A journalist might compare well to his clever ex, but on the other hand, she might not be able to carry it off for long. CHAPTER FOUR It was time to tell the truth, Caro decided. A version of it, anyway. "I'm the fashion editor for a magazine called Glitz," she said. She did work for Glitz; she had just promoted herself a bit. If Anthony was used to living with a Ph.D. student, she wasn't going to admit that she was just an acting fashion assistant, aka dogsbody. "Ah." The dark blue eyes gleamed. "That explains the shoes!"
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Delighted that he had noticed, Caro stretched out one foot to admire their full glory. "Most men wouldn't have noticed my shoes." "It's hard to miss those. They're not the kind of shoes you see for walking in the park every day." There was a twitch to his mouth that made her suspect that he was teasing her. Well, two could play at that game. She put up her chin. "One has to keep up certain standards," she said loftily. "I can see that you do," said Anthony in a grave voice, but his mouth was still quivering suspiciously. "It must be hard holding down a high-powered job like yours and coping with a baby. How do you manage?" "I've got a marvellous nanny…Kate." Caro chose the first name that came into her head. "And Jo is an excellent assistant," she added, co-opting her best friend at work who was marginally senior and shared her office. "That really helps." Really, why bother with boring old reality when a little economy with the truth was so much more effective? Far from slamming down his mug of tea and accusing her of bare-faced lies, Anthony seemed to have accepted her glamorous past and demanding career without question. It must have been her shoes that convinced him, Caro thought with a smug glance downward. They chatted a bit more about the difficulties of single parenthood, which was a bit trickier, but she brushed through it pretty well, she thought. So well, in fact, that by the time Jake started to grizzle, and she had to reluctantly finish her tea and go, Anthony had suggested a drink sometime. Jubilant, Caro brandished the business card Anthony had given her in front of her housemates when she got home. "Don't buy me that mop yet," she said buoyantly. "There was a definite spark there — that kiss is just a matter of time! He's going to email me." Bella took the card from her and studied it. "An architect? Hmm, not bad. Makes a change from your usual wasters, anyway. And you've got a telephone number here in case he doesn't contact you." "Of course he's going to contact me!" Caro bristled. "I wrote my email address on a napkin specially." For once she was positively eager to get into work the next day so that she could check her in-box and fill Jo in on Anthony and the bet that she had made with her housemates, but there was no message from him on Monday. Or Tuesday. Every time her computer pinged to announce a new message, Caro's heart leapt, only to plummet a second later when there was nothing from a.gilchrist@can'twaittocontacther.com. "That's it!" she sighed on Wednesday, having checked her messages for the umpteenth time that morning. "I'm giving up on men. Anthony was perfect, and if he can't be bothered to get in touch, there's no hope for any of us!" "Well, why don't you ring him?" said Jo. "You've got his number." "I can't do that! He'll think I'm desperate!" "You are." Jo shrugged. "You want to win that bet, don't you?" Caro chewed her thumb and studied Anthony's business card, now creased from overhandling. "I don't see why I have to do all the work," she grumbled. "I've engineered the meeting and started the conversation and given him the opportunity to ask me out. I don't think a little email in return is asking too much!"
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"It looks like you'll be cleaning that kitchen after all, in that case," said Jo, not without a touch of malice. She had heard quite enough about how perfect Anthony was over the past two days. The phone rang just then, and Caro glared at her as she picked it up. "Fashion," she snapped. "I'll put you through," Caro managed in a strangled voice, and put him on hold. "It's him!" she hissed to Jo. "Quick, you've got to be me! Remember, I'm fashion editor, and you're my assistant." "What's it worth?" "Doughnuts all week," Caro promised. Jo was perfect. "Caroline Taylor's assistant," she said in her breathiest voice. "Who's calling? …a personal call? …well, she's extremely busy at the moment, but let me just see if she's got a moment…" She grinned at Caro as she put him back on hold. "We'll let him sweat for a bit. After all, he's waited until now to call you, and we don't want you to look too keen." "We don't want him to give up, either," said Caro nervously. "No chance of that." Jo went back to Anthony. "Just putting you through," she said sweetly, and Caro's phone rang. Taking a deep breath, Caro picked it up. "Hello!" she said, dropping her voice an octave in case he recognized her from before. "Is that Caro?" he asked, sounding puzzled. "Yes," she said. The huskiness was hard to keep up, but it sounded suitably sexy, she hoped. "You sound a bit strange. Are you all right?" So much for sexy. Caro cleared her throat. "Just a frog in my throat," she said more normally. "Oh. Well, this is Anthony Gilchrist. We met in the park on Sunday." Yes, and I've been waiting for you to contact me ever since. "I remember," said Caro, supercool instead. "And you gave me your email address on a paper napkin?" "Oh…yes," she said slowly, quite as if she hadn't spent the last two days checking her inbox. "I'm afraid I lost it," said Anthony. "Lost it?" Shouldn't he have been carrying it next to his heart? "Yes, er… Tom had to blow his nose on the way home, and the napkin was all we had." He sounded torn between embarrassment and laughter. "By the time I realized that it had your address on it, it was too late." CHAPTER FIVE Anthony had let her son blow his nose on her contact details! Flirting with the idea of pretending to be offended, Caro gave up and laughed instead.
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"You know, I've always suspected that's what men did with my telephone number and email address whenever I've given them out in the past," she told him in mock confidential tones, "but you're the first to admit it openly!" He was obviously relieved to hear her laugh. "It was only later that I worked out what had happened," he apologized. "We've had problems with our computers, so I thought the easiest thing in the end would be to ring Glitz and ask for the fashion editor." Thank God he had come through to her! Caro glanced through the glass to where Martha, her boss, was on the phone in her office. She was a great person to work for, but she might not have been that amused to find out that Caro had awarded herself her job overnight. "I know how busy you are," Anthony went on. "I was just wondering if you'd like to have that drink…or I don't suppose you'd be free for dinner one night this week?" "Dinner…?" Caro thrust up her clenched fist in a silent victory gesture. "That sounds nice. Let me just have look at my diary.…" She leafed noisily through the pages, um-ing and ah-ing as if searching for a gap in a frantic social schedule. "What about Friday?" she asked at last. Jo rolled her eyes when Caro eventually put down the phone with a smug smile. "Free on a Friday night? That's a dead giveaway!" "I'm a single mother, remember?" said Caro virtuously. "I'm not supposed to be out clubbing every night." "Well, if he's picking you up, you'd better make the house look as if a baby lives there and not four sad singletons who don't go clubbing every night, either!" "Oh God, you're right.… I'd better borrow some stuff." By Friday evening the kitchen was transformed. "What do you think?" Caro asked anxiously, setting a high chair at the big pine table. "If you ask me, it's all a bit tidy," decided Bella, casting a critical look AROUND Caro's old teddy was perched on the sofa, a plastic drinking mug and bowl with rabbits running round the edge had been left oh-so-casually on the draining board, and an assortment of toys were stacked in a corner. Some of Jake's earliest artistic efforts decorated the fridge, and Kate had even bought a packet of nappies to leave on a chair as a finishing touch. "He'll think you're an anal repressive." "Do you really think so?" Caro chewed her thumb, a bad habit of hers when she was feeling twitch. "I don't want him to get the wrong idea." "No," agreed Phoebe with a grin. "Not like him getting the idea that you're a fashion editor when you're not, or that you've got a baby when you don't…" "That you had an affair with a film star when you didn't," Bella chimed in. "I can't believe he really fell for that one!" "Yes, or that I'm a nanny when I'm not," Kate grumbled. "I don't see why it has to be me." They gave Caro a stiff V&T to steady her nerves, but she was twitching away for England, and the moment the doorbell went, she jumped so badly that the last of the vodka spilt over her dress.
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"I'll go and let him in," said Phoebe as Bella mopped her up. Caro could hear the deep rumble of Anthony's voice as he squeezed past the borrowed pushchair in the hall, and then, suddenly, he was in front of her, filling the kitchen with his presence. "Hi." Embarrassingly, it came out as little more than a squeak. She had forgotten quite how attractive he was. The sight of him seemed to suck the air from her lungs. He was so tall, so solid, so at ease with himself. Anthony looked around him with interest, unfazed by the intensely interested gazes of the other three girls or the fact that Caro seemed incapable of doing more than standing and staring at him. "This is very nice," he said. "How do you keep it so tidy? Sue's house is always a complete mess." This less-than-tactful reference to his ex at least had the effect of making Caro pull herself together. "I couldn't manage without Jake's nanny," she said with a gracious smile in Kate's direction. "Kate's a marvel." Ignoring the splutters from Phoebe and Bella, Kate cast down her eyes and smiled modestly. "I'll just go and check on Jake," she said, and went out, only to come tiptoeing back in a few minutes later. "He's sound asleep," she told Caro earnestly. "Now, don't worry about a thing. I'll keep an eye on him." "Er…right…thanks," said Caro, a little unnerved by the verve with which Kate was throwing herself into her role as devoted retainer. She'd be wearing a uniform and a cap and referring to "Master Jake" any minute now. "Shall we go?" she said quickly to Anthony. Things picked up as soon as they were out of danger from overacting housemates. Anthony took her to Brewer's, a restaurant that was always getting rave reviews. It was the kind of place Caro would normally never get closer to than pressing her nose against the window. Her spirits soared. Why had she been so nervous? Here she was in this fantastic restaurant with the most gorgeous man sitting across the table and smiling at her with his slightly crooked smile and his blue, blue eyes, and if she wasn't mistaken, the air was crackling already with sparks between them. Anthony was so easy to talk to, too. When they had ordered from the mouth-watering menu, he told her about the flat he had converted from the roof of a disused warehouse, and about the house he was going to build from scratch one day. "I know exactly what it's like," he said. "I've designed it in my head so many times while I've been bored out of my mind dealing with planning applications, which is all that most people want me for!" His face lit up as he talked, and watching him, Caro felt something stir inside her. She could think of better reasons to want him than his ability to get her planning permission for a conservatory. Most of the men she knew either made a point of appearing world-weary and cynical or couldn't resist boasting about their jobs and their bonuses and how flashy their cars were. There was something very appealing about Anthony's self-deprecating humor. "I hope it's going to be suitably pretentious," she teased him. "Lots of steel and glass and nowhere comfortable to slob out!" "Lots of space and light," he corrected her with a grin, "but don't worry, there'll be a big, squashy sofa, too!" "It sounds lovely," said Caro a little wistfully, wishing that she had as clear an idea of what she wanted from life. And wondering whether he was planning to sit in his light, spacious house on his own.
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He shrugged, almost shame-faced. "It's just a dream at the moment, but you know what they say, 'If you don't have a dream…'" he sang, so excruciatingly off-key that Caro winced. "I'm glad your dream doesn't involve singing!" Anthony smiled at her as he sat forward. "Go on," he said, "I've told you my dream. What's yours?" You. CHAPTER SIX "What's your dream?" Anthony had asked, and the answer had come to her without thinking. You are. For one heart-stopping moment Caro was afraid that she had said it out loud. But it was true. She couldn't think of anything she wanted more in life than for him to reach over and touch her. To take her hand and pull her to her feet. To tell the waiter that they had decided not to eat after all, that he needed to take her home and make love to her right now. She swallowed. "Oh…you know…" "No," said Anthony, unhelpfully. "Well…I suppose I just dream about the usual things. A husband, a family, a home. Feeling safe. Feeling loved." Her eyes slid away from his. "Boring, isn't it?" "Not if that's what you really want." Caro smiled a bit sadly and crumbled her roll. "Don't you think a dream should be more exciting somehow? More of a risk?" "You can't take a bigger risk than marriage," he said wryly. "Were you and Sue married?" An odd sort of smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "No." "Why not?" He seemed to be picking his words with care. "It was a mutual thing. Neither of us wanted to." Caro went back to her roll. "Does that mean that you don't believe in marriage?" The dark blue eyes looked directly into hers. "No, it means that I'm waiting until I'm absolutely sure that I've found the person I want to spend the rest of my life with." Her fingers stilled as she found herself held by the expression in his eyes and the breath seemed to leak slowly out of her lungs "You're a romantic," she said with difficulty. "I know." Anthony's eyes crinkled disarmingly as he smiled. "Do you mind?" "No," she managed unevenly after a charged moment. "I don't mind." She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he looked away.
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"At least you've made a start on your dream," he pointed out. Caro looked at him stupidly. "I have?" "You've got Jake," he reminded her. "Oh…yes…of course." She smiled weakly. She kept forgetting Jake, supposed center of her existence. Some fantasy mother she was! "I'd like more children, though. I've always wanted a big family." Well, she had. It just felt odd when the truth snuck in amongst all the fibs. "How will your job fit in with all those children?" Anthony was asking. "Oh, well, it's just a job, isn't it?" said Caro unguardedly. "I'm not that ambitious. I'd rather have a good time and get paid for it than put my heart and soul into a job." Anthony's brows rose. "I'd have assumed that you had to be very ambitious to get to be fashion editor at your age!" he commented. That's right, Caro. Remember you told him you were a fashion editor along with all those other lies? Like being a single mother and having had an affair with a movie star. And all just to get him to kiss her. Wouldn't it have been easier just to have grabbed him on that bench after all instead of remembering what she had and hadn't told him? Still, it was too late now. "I do enjoy my job," she told him, "but it's not the center of my existence. Jake's my priority." Having been reminded of her mythical son, she had better give him another mention. "It wouldn't be the end of the world for me if I had to give it up." If, just for instance, he wanted to invite her to live in that lovely, light house by the sea.… "That's refreshingly honest," said Anthony. He paused. "You know, it's one of the things I like most about you." "What is?" asked Caro, puzzled, but perfectly willing to bask in his approval. "Your honesty." If it hadn't been so ironic, she would have laughed. As it was, all she could do was gape at him. "You seem such a genuine person," he was going on seriously. "That means a lot to me. You know, I was beginning to think that I would never find anyone I could trust. Every time I got close to a woman, it would turn out that she wasn't quite what she said she was, and that our whole relationship was based on a pretense. After I split up with my last girlfriend, I vowed that I'd never get involved again with someone who wasn't able to just be herself." Now he told her! Caro felt quite cross with him. That was it, wait until she had told him a whole farrago of lies and then announce that honesty was the one quality he was looking for in a woman! She wasn't surprised that he had a thing — all men had a thing about something — but why did it have to be that one? Why couldn't he hate extravagant women, say? Not that that would have been ideal, either. She scrubbed that idea hastily, remembering how much she had spent on her latest pair of shoes.
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Why not have a thing about…ooh…cleverness, for instance? It would be perfectly understandable if Anthony had a deep distrust of intellectual women after his experience with Tom's mother. Or what about efficiency, practicality, frugality, bossiness…really, when you thought about it there were loads of qualities that she would never possess that he could quite legitimately resent. Why out of all of them had he had to choose dishonesty? How could she tell him now that she had been just the teensiest bit economical with the truth, not to mention lying through her teeth? She would never get him to kiss her if she did that. And the more she thought about that kiss, the more she wanted it. Caro picked at her salad, conscious of a shadow over the evening now. It was her own fault for lying in first place and then not taking opportunity to confess. He had given her the perfect opening, after all. "Well, actually Anthony," was all she would have needed to have said, "I haven't been entirely straight with you.…" She could have turned the whole bet thing into a joke and made him laugh and got brownie points for owning up. But she hadn't been able to bear risk of his face changing, of seeing the disappointment in his eyes and hearing him make an excuse to end the evening early. She would tell him the truth, Caro promised herself. Of course she would. Just not yet. Not before he had kissed her, anyway. CHAPTER SEVEN If only Anthony hadn't told her how important he thought honesty was! It wasn't that she disagreed with him, of course. Honesty was an admirable quality, and under normal circumstances Caro was all for it. It just wasn't what you wanted to think about when you had been telling whopping great lies and had the sudden sinking feeling that you were going to have a bit of a problem extricating yourself from them. At what point, for example, was Caro going to slip into the conversation the trifling little fact that she didn't, in fact, have a baby? Or a glamorous job. Or even a halfway decent one. Still, she mustn't let it spoil their evening, not when everything else was so perfect. Caro gave herself a mental shake. The bet was almost won. She had her date with Anthony — and not even Bella could claim that being taken out to dinner at Brewer's wasn't a full-blown date with bells on. Now all she had to do was to get him to kiss her, and Caro had the feeling that that wasn't going to be a problem. Those delicious sparks that had given a frisson of awareness to the evening earlier were burning away merrily now, and they were exchanging so many eye-meets it was impossible to concentrate on the food. Caro just hoped Anthony wasn't any good at reading body language. She wanted to be subtle and alluring, to intrigue and enchant, not to carry on as if she were working her way through Cosmo's top ten tips to tell him you want him. She cringed inwardly as if able to see herself from a distance, leaning forward, opening her eyes wide, running her tongue over her lips, and even caressing the candle in such a suggestive fashion that she might as well have ripped off her clothes there and then and cried, "Take me; I'm yours!" "Would you like a pudding?" Anthony asked, but Caro was so obsessed by then that she even turned down the sinfully rich-looking chocolate mousse that was to have been the highlight of her meal. She didn't want to think what she would do with a spoonful of mousse in her current state. It was a crying shame. How many times had she fantasized about being taken out to dinner at Brewer's, and now all she could do was long for the time to leave! Surely he would kiss her then?
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But she hadn't counted on the chatty cab driver who talked all the way home and then kept Anthony for hours talking about England's abysmal cricket score instead of handing over his change and leaving them alone. At least it gave Caro time to prepare a casual invitation to come in for coffee in the kitchen, where there was a very convenient sofa on which he could, if he so cared, devour her with kisses. Not that she would put it quite like that, but he would get the point, surely? "Would you like a coffee?" she said in a coolly alluring way. Or tried to. What actually came out was a high-pitched croak, of which only one syllable was remotely intelligible. "-fee?" "I don't think I will, thanks," said Anthony, politely ignoring the fact that she had suddenly started talking gibberish. Unless she had been talking gibberish all evening. "I'm going to walk home and clear my head." He produced a wry smile. "I need it." "Oh…okay." Caro struggled to hide her disappointment at the thought of that sofa going to waste. Still, all was not lost, she told herself. He could still kiss her. She was standing on the doorstep, which gave her a couple of extra inches, so he wouldn't have to bend his head too far. All he had to do was to come a step closer.… She smiled invitingly, but all Anthony said was: "Have you got any plans for tomorrow?" To hell with being cool and playing hard to get. "Nothing special." "I was going to take Tom to Hampstead Heath. I wondered if you and Jake would like to come, too. We could take a picnic." Caro imagined getting into a long explanation about Jake, and decided against it. That would have to wait. Right now, she just wanted that kiss. "That sounds lovely," she said. Then Anthony started talking about when and where he would pick them up, while Caro nodded in a fever of impatience. She would agree to whatever he wanted if he would just stop talking and kiss her! "So, I'll see you tomorrow," he said at last. v"Yes." It came out as little more than a gasp. Every single nerve ending in Caro's body was quivering with anticipation, including the one in charge of breathing, whose mind was definitely not on the job. "Thank you for a lovely evening," she managed with some difficulty. "I really enjoyed it." Now kiss me! "I enjoyed it, too," said Anthony with a smile that set her heart hammering, and then at last — at last! — he stepped toward her.
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All it would take would be the tiniest touch and she would spontaneously combust. And if that touch wasn't forthcoming, she would spontaneously combust anyway out of sheer frustration. Either way, it looked as if there was going to be a nasty mess on Phoebe's doorstep. "Goodnight, Caro." As he bent his head, Caro closed her eyes in exquisite relief and tilted up her face, waiting for his mouth to come down on hers. Any second now… His lips just grazed the corner of her mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly, and ran the back of his finger lightly down her cheek. And then he turned and walked away, leaving Caro alone, her eyes squeezed shut, and one hand to her face where the skin still felt as if it had been seared by his touch. *** "He must think I'm desperate!" Caro wailed, humiliated, the next morning. Whenever she thought about the way she had swayed invitingly toward him, all puckered up for the kiss that never happened, she cringed inwardly. "I'm not sure I can face him," she said. "I think I'll ring him and tell him I've changed my mind about the picnic." "Don't be silly," said Kate, removing the phone firmly from Caro's grasp. "Of course you're going. You've still got that bet to win, haven't you?" Right. The bet. Think of that. *** Only Caro couldn't think about it when Anthony was stretched out beside her on the grass, utterly relaxed after the picnic. All she could think about was what it would be like to be able to lean over and kiss him. What it would be like if he smiled and pulled her down to kiss her back. What it would be like if she could tell him that she loved him. Because she did. CHAPTER EIGHT She loved him. Gazing down at Anthony, Caro knew it with an utter certainty that she had never felt about anything before. She loved him and she had lied to him. She was going to have to tell him the truth, but what if that meant he never wanted to see her again? How would she bear it? *** Caro was very quiet on the way home from their picnic. Anthony made no comment, but he asked her to supper that night. "There's something I have to tell you," he said. "Will Kate be able to baby-sit Jake again?" She couldn't face explaining the truth about Jake right then. Tonight would be soon enough, she told herself.
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"Let him kiss you first," advised Kate in an attempt to cheer her up. "At least that way you'll win the bet." But Caro didn't care about the bet any more. She just cared about Anthony, and what he was going to say when he found out that she was just as dishonest as the other women who had disappointed him so much in his previous relationships. "Worse, probably," she said gloomily to Kate. "I bet none of his other women invented entirely fictitious lives for themselves. I'm going to have to tell him." "Wear your kitten heels. That'll make you feel better." *** They didn't, but at least Anthony noticed them. "I'm glad to see that you're keeping up your standards on the shoe front," he said as he led Caro out onto a roof terrace awash with evening sunshine. "I'd be very disappointed now if you turned up in a pair of Hush Puppies." Caro smiled wanly. "My mother's always telling me I'm going to ruin my feet." "I like the way you wear frivolous shoes," he told her, and his voice was very deep with that subtle undercurrent of laughter and something else. "It was one of the first things I noticed about you. You see other mothers in the park, and they all look very practical, but you…you were different." He could say that again. "Your shoes said that you were stylish, a bit quirky," Anthony went on. "They said, here's someone who knows how to have fun, someone who'll make you feel better and brighter just by the way she walks into the room, someone…" He trailed off, searching for the right word. "…someone enchanting," he finished at last. Caro swallowed. "Nobody's ever said anything like that to me before." "What, not even that movie star who seduced you?" This was it. "There was no movie star," she said, turning to face him. "I just made that up to try to impress you." A twitch at the corner of Anthony's mouth told her that he wasn't exactly astounded. "I hoped you did," he said. She took a deep breath. "I'm not a fashion editor, and I'm not a mother. Jake isn't my baby; he's my nephew," she gabbled. "Kate is just a friend, not a nanny. And I don't own that house; Phoebe does." There, she had said it! Phew. "Jake's not yours?" said Anthony, as if latching on to the only thing that mattered. "No. I just said that he was so that I would have an excuse to talk to you. It was a bet," she explained when he looked staggered. "I saw you in the park with Tom. We were talking about how hard it is to meet men, and I said to the others that I was sure that if I just had a baby, I could get to know you. So I borrowed Jake for the afternoon to prove my point." "So any man would have done really?" There was a tell-tale quiver around Anthony's mouth. "No." A hint of color stained Caro's cheeks. "I thought you looked nice," she muttered.
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Anthony assimilated that in silence for a moment. "So you won your bet?" he said at last. "Not exactly." She might as well tell him everything. "I had to get you to ask me on a date and…and to kiss me," she finished in a rush. "What happens if I don't?" he said, an undercurrent of laughter in his voice, and Caro swallowed. "I'll have to clean the kitchen for a month." Anthony smiled. "We can't have that," he said, and put his hands at her waist, pulling her toward him so that he could drop a gentle kiss on her lips. "Will that do?" "Not really," said Caro huskily. "It had to be a proper kiss," she said, strumming from the touch of his hands and the feel of his mouth and the smile in his eyes. "Then we'd better try again." And this time it really was a proper kiss. It was the kind of kiss Caro had dreamed about, a kiss you could sink into, a long, sweet, blissful kiss that went on and on until you were boneless and breathless with happiness, and then you kissed some more. Much, much later, she rested her face against his throat with a sigh of contentment. "Are you sure you don't mind about all those lies I told?" Anthony's chest vibrated with silent laughter. "Well, I never believed that about Jake's father being a Hollywood celebrity, to tell you the truth, and you did seem a bit young to be a fashion editor, so I can't say I was that surprised to hear that you'd been telling porkies about that. But I did think that Jake was yours, I must admit. I really liked it that you were such a relaxed mother compared to Sue — she's much more tense with Tom." "At least she really is a mother. I always thought she sounded perfect," Caro admitted. "I was a bit jealous. You always sound so fond of her." "Ah, well, that might have a bit to do with the fact that Sue's my sister." "What!" Caro sat bolt upright. "She really is a single mother," he said, laughing. "The Ph.D. has been a struggle, especially now that she's trying to finish it off, so I try to give her a hand with Tom as often as I can. That's why I was in the park with him that day." "Why didn't you tell me?" "I thought you looked nice.'" Anthony quoted her words back at her. "You just assumed that I was Tom's father, and I thought it would make you feel more comfortable if you thought that I understood about children, so I played along." "After all you had to say about honesty, too!" Caro pretended to sound aggrieved, and he held her face between his hands and looked deep into her eyes. "I'm being honest now," he said with a smile that made her heart soar. "I love you, Caro. I always will. Do you think you could ever love me that way?" Caro made a show of thinking. "Honestly?"
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"Honestly." "The honest truth is that I fell in love the moment I saw you," she said, and kissed him. "At least you'll be able to tell your housemates that won your bet," he teased her a long time later. "I certainly did!" She kissed the pulse below his ear. "Several times over in fact. I just needed one kiss to win." "Just one?" Anthony tsk-tsked as he tipped her off his lap and led her inside. "Since we're being honest now, I've got to tell you, Caro, that one kiss is just not going to be enough.…"
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Indulge Me by Joanne Rock Madison Blair is determined to indulge her sensual side by doing all the things she's only ever dreamed about ? and sexy Nathan Abrams might be the perfect fantasty man! Madison Blair is in need of a little self-indulgence. She's finally ended a dead-end relationship with a selfcentered man, and she's gotten fed up waiting for a promotion that never seems to happen. So Madison has decided to immerse herself in the kind of luxury she usually only writes about in her job as a travel reporter. However, when she comes face-to-face with a man right out of her most private fantasies, she finds herself distracted from her goal of spending some alone time at an Adirondacks resort.... Nathan has been fed up with self-absorbed women ever since his ex-wife left him almost bankrupt. But he still finds himself intrigued by Madison when she turns down a date with him in favor of "me" time. However, when he thinks she might write an article that will threaten his hard-won solitude in the mountains, he wonders if he can distract her by indulging some of her more provocative desires... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Chapter One Madison Blair fended off a shiver as she stared down at the still aquamarine water of the resort's penthouse pool. Sure, the Hearthside Inn kept the Olympic-size swimming facility a comfortable 86 degrees, but that didn't prevent Madison's moment of trepidation. She didn't want to just swim, after all. Nope. A well-known international travel writer, she wanted to follow her hidden sensualist's instincts for once and skinny-dip the way women in Cancun or the French Riviera did. The way people at exotic resorts all over the globe did when they weren't bogged down by reticence and caring what other people thought the way Madison always had. Maybe she could do it if she didn't totally skinny dip. She could just take a lap topless and let the water caress her skin. It was three a.m. The chances of her being discovered by a fellow insomniac were probably pretty small. Just dive in! the voice inside her head shouted. When had she ever simply plunged headfirst into any adventure, big or small? She had booked this week at the Hearthside in order to indulge herself for a change. To take a few risks and experience the kinds of exciting activities she normally only wrote about. And after a day in the wintry wonderland of the Adirondack Mountains, Madison was very ready for the heated pool. She had a mere week before she needed to be back at her office in Manhattan. One week to see if she could live for herself instead of everyone else in her life. Dipping one toe into the warm water, Madison reminded herself that she'd already ditched her no-commitment boyfriend and the dead-end relationship she'd been hanging on to for two years. Surely that proved she was ready for some serious change. And she'd already booked an appointment at the inn's famous spa and salon tomorrow for some blond highlights to her medium-brown hair and just about any other beauty procedure they could dream up for her. She was evolving into someone who could skinny-dip, damn it. Lowering her fluffy white beach towel with the Hearthside's elegant monogram on the corner, Madison bared her two-piece bathing suit to the empty penthouse pool room and reached for the clasp of her halter top. While she was evolving into that fearless skinny-dipping female, she would settle for a topless lap. Bathing suit bottom firmly in place. A woman had to start somewhere.
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Allowing the purple Lycra top to slither to the concrete, Madison smiled at the rush of power she felt over being half-naked and perched on the edge of the pool. I am woman. Hear me roar. Springing off her toes and into the water, Madison plunged into the pool and straight to the bottom. Warm enough not to shock her body yet cool enough to feel refreshing, the temperature was perfect. She stayed underwater and cut through the wavy walls of blue with her arms, her hair floating all around her like a mermaid's mane. She smiled at the seductive sensation of water gliding over her naked breasts. How easy men had it to swim without the constant tug of elastic at their shoulders. This delicious freedom was what self-indulgence was all about. Infused with a renewed commitment to her week of unrepentant decadence, Madison reached the other end of the pool and propelled herself to the surface. Shooting through the liquid ceiling, she breathed deep to fill her lungs. And nearly sprang right out of her bikini bottoms. Her eyes locked on a pair of men's black wing tips. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature prickled her skin. Frozen, Madison lifted her gaze from the leather shoe tassels to take in gray flannel trousers. And ? gulp ? a very sexy crisp white shirt opened at the neck to reveal a hint of muscular chest. A yellow-and-blue-striped silk tie looped around his collar, unknotted. A fantastically gorgeous man grinned down at her ? every inch of her ? with a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes. "Little late for a swim, isn't it?" Chapter Two Nathan Abrams jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to the nude nymph treading water below. In his quest to find a little solitude around the close-knit Lake Placid community, Nathan often frequented his favorite places at odd hours. Once, he'd stumbled across an arthritic old man massaging his knee in the Hearthside pool at three a.m., and then there'd been the time he'd run into a janitor enjoying a swim after his late shift. But not once in two years of nocturnal visits to the penthouse swim facility had the investments brokerturned-Adirondack rafting guide encountered a naked woman. A naked woman who was sexy as hell with perfectly shaped pink nipples. Obviously, he was dreaming. Or maybe he was having an exquisitely real episode of wishful thinking. Either way, the vision was a very, very good thing. The woman sank back under the water as quickly as she'd shot out of it, assuring him this couldn't possibly be wishful thinking. He definitely wasn't ready to lose sight of that glistening, lithe body just yet. Now only her heart-shaped face remained above the surface as she pinned him with a haughty glare from her chocolate brown eyes. "The Hearthside management doesn't allow gawking at the bathers, you know." She hardly talked like a vision. Nathan rubbed his eyes to try and recapture the steamier version of the water nymph, but she continued to glower at him while keeping those enticing breasts firmly under water.
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"I'm sure they'd amend that rule if they started allowing skinny-dipping while the pool is closed. Who could blame me for gawking?" It was difficult enough not to stare at her now when she was mostly submerged. She probably didn't know it, but the water was well lit. And quite transparent. He'd never be able to smell chlorine again without getting turned on. "I am not skinny-dipping," she argued, her cheeks rapidly growing pink. Lowering himself to one knee in front of her, Nathan moved closer. He studied the depths of the water with interest. "Ah, yes. I couldn't see the purple bathing suit bottom before, but now ?" With a huff of outrage and a healthy splash kicked his way, the incensed mermaid took off underwater in the opposite direction from where he stood. And through her indignation, she effectively confirmed his growing suspicion. She was all too real. Chapter Three The night grew more interesting by the moment for Nathan. Hand pressed to the cool tile, he watched her swim away while a drop of water slid down his nose. In an effort to play the gentleman, he didn't follow his baser urge to race to the other side of the pool and see if he could catch a glimpse of her there, too. God knows his feet would have gladly sprinted had he allowed them. But if the woman in the pool was a living and breathing woman, Nathan Abrams ? despite his two-year stint as a loner in the mountains ? had a good mind to ask her out. And his chances of her saying yes would certainly be decreased if he gawked any more. Or at least they would be if he was obvious about it. He was admirably laid-back when she reached for a tiny scrap of purple fabric at the far end of the pool. He even turned around when she tugged the material underwater. No doubt she was tying on her top even now while he looked out the oversize skylight into the snowy, star-filled night and pictured her. In detail. Just as he was patting himself on the back for his restraint, her voice echoed through the enclosed pool area. "You know, a gentleman would have just left the room." Well, hell. Braving a glance over one shoulder, he saw her safely out of the pool and wrapped in a fluffy hotel towel, probably well strapped into her swimsuit beneath that. She used a second towel to dry off her shoulder-length brown hair. Growing more and more curious about his fellow night owl, Nathan rose to his feet and dared a few steps in her direction. Wasn't it high time he got over the wounds from his divorce and took a few chances on those of the feminine persuasion again? The water nymph in front of him might look every bit as beautiful as his ex-wife, but there was no way she could be as utterly self-absorbed if she was hiding her penchant for swimming naked under cover of night. Phoebe would have strut right through the lobby in her thong. Besides, the sylph in the purple swimsuit wasn't local. If things didn't work out with his first foray into dating again, he wouldn't have to stumble over her everywhere he went in the small Lake Placid community. Not that stumbling over her so far had proven anything but tremendously...pleasurable.
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He sauntered in her direction. "Maybe. But then a real gentleman would probably be choking on his own regret right about now, too." He arrived at the other end of the pool, a few feet away from her. "I'd like to think of myself as more of risk-taker than that." She raised a censorious brown eyebrow in response, a last droplet of water dripping from her temple straight down to her cheek. "And I imagine any woman skinny-dipping at three a.m. has learned to appreciate the allure of a few calculated risks in life." Nathan had all he could do not to lean over and halt the drop in its path with his finger. "How about taking an even bigger gamble and say you'll see me tomorrow night?" Chapter Four She'd come to the Adirondacks for some adventure, hadn't she? Now, she stood face-to-face with a sexy stranger dangling the chance to take a few risks. Madison snuggled her towel a little closer to her body for two reasons. One, she needed to remind her racing pulse that yes, she was decently covered now. And two, she wanted to make darn sure she hid her body's reaction to the mouthwatering man standing just close enough to send a pleasant shiver straight through her. But as tempting as it sounded to spend some time with the Adonis in Armani, Madison refused to relinquish her mission for this week. She came to the luxurious Hearthside Inn for some serious self-indulgence and some exceedingly rare "Madison time." She couldn't afford to allow herself to get caught up in some sexy stranger who'd stepped out of her fantasies. "I don't know if seeing each other again would be such a good idea." He shook his head. "I'm going about this all wrong, aren't I? Let me start again. I'm Nathan Abrams." Extending his hand to her, he waited expectantly. Carefully transferring both ends of her towel into one fist, Madison shook Nathan's hand with her other. "Madison Blair. And I have to say I'm a bit embarrassed to meet you." She felt the warmth build in her cheeks as the heat from his palm jumped to hers. How mortifying to meet a fantasy man while so...underdressed. Then again, maybe if she spent more time indulging her own needs and wants instead of worrying about what the rest of the world thought, she wouldn't be a bit embarrassed. She'd be thrilled for the chance to melt right into Nathan Abram's hazel eyes. The grin he flashed her stole her breath even as he released her fingers. "I'd be lying if I said the incident in the pool was already forgotten. But I don't think it's anything to be embarrassed about. If it makes you feel any better, I went to a beach in Rio once and every woman in sight was wearing less than you were when we met." A well-traveled man? Now that sparked her interest even more. Her last loser boyfriend hadn't known the difference between Sydney and Singapore. Nor did he care to hear about it. Still, she was here this week to work on a major attitude adjustment, not get involved with a sexy stranger. "I'd love to be that bold," she confided, surprised to share her most hidden secret with a man she'd never met. Odd what insomnia and the solitude of the pool room at three a.m. could do to a person. "But, actually, that's part of the reason I shouldn't see you this week. I'm having a bit of a retreat to focus on some 'me' time." And no matter how enticing Nathan Abrams might be, Madison wouldn't be swayed from her mission.
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Chapter Five She wanted "me" time? Nathan heard the words but found them hard to reconcile with the half-shy woman who'd raced for her halter top at the first sight of him. He knew all about self-absorbed women who needed lots of "me" time. Hell, Phoebe's whole life had been a me, me, me show from the moment he'd met her. Surely this modest, brown-eyed mermaid in front of him wasn't the selfish creature his ex-wife had been. Still, Nathan knew better than to press. For now. "Never let it be said I argued with a woman on retreat." Tugging a business card from his wallet, Nathan handed it to her. "If you change your mind ?" "I can't." Her voice was firm, but her dark eyes held a flash of regret. Or so he hoped. "I'm going to venture out on a limb here and say that I'm willing to bet you're a woman who occasionally seeks a little adventure." Witness the skinny-dipping incident. Heaven knew he wouldn't be forgetting it any time soon. "Take the card, and then if you ever decide you're ready for another risk or two, you'll know where to reach me." "I have to warn you, I'm a cautious risk-taker, Nathan." Still, she reached to accept his offering. "Otherwise, I would have been vacationing in Rio wearing my thong on the beach instead of hiding out in the Hearthside pool room at three a.m. for my little moment of indulgence." He didn't dare get distracted by the thought of her in a thong or he wouldn't sleep at all tonight. He barely stood a chance now after getting an eyeful of Madison's naked breasts. "A cautious risk-taker? Then I'll consider myself all the more flattered should you ever change your mind about me." Pressing the card into her palm for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, Nathan felt a spark of heated connection between them, a leap of pure electricity that sizzled him from the inside out. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Madison." She pulled back as if she'd felt the shock as clearly as he had. Catching the fullness of her lower lip with her teeth, she looked distressed for only a moment before she tightened the towel a little more around her body and offered up a faint smile. "Good night, Nathan." It had been a good night, damn it. Turning on his heel, he left her to her swim and wondered how he could see her again. He had surely just been experiencing dating paranoia to think soft and sexy Madison could ever be anything like his hard-as-nails ex-wife. He would find a way to see Madison again and he didn't have any intention of waiting around for her to change her mind. First thing tomorrow, he had every intention of tracking her down. And sooner or later, he would find a way to make her say yes. To indulge in some of that me time with him. Chapter Six Madison wandered around the lobby of the Hearthside Inn the next morning and tried not to think about Nathan. She had another hour before her spa appointment and she couldn't think of a single hedonistic activity to engage in before then.
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Well, besides calling the number on Nathan's card and seeing if he wanted to indulge her a little. Or maybe all day. Pulling the card from her purse for the tenth time, Madison traced a finger over the color graphic of a river raft and the bold black print. "Nathan Abrams, Adirondack Rafting Guide." A crazy profession for a man wearing Armani at three a.m. Not that it wasn't intriguing. And Nathan had told her to call him when she was ready for adventure. Had he meant adventure of the rafting kind? Or another sort of escapade entirely? Madison peered around the bustling lobby, half hoping she'd run into the man who'd starred in all her dreams last night. Frustrated when she saw only skiers getting ready to hit the slopes for the day, she noticed a small Sale sign outside the pro shop. Shopping was definitely a self-indulgence. Seized with purpose, Madison charged into the store and stopped at the first display case she spied. Sunglasses. Fine. Convinced she was distracting herself from visions of broad shoulders in crisp white linen, Madison didn't notice the woman staring at her from the other side of the display case until a tortoiseshell pair of glasses was thrust in her face. Try these on, chica. They are perfect for you." The woman was boldness and attitude personified. Jewelry sparkled at her wrists and fingers. Long, dark hair contrasted with her bright orange parka and dangling parrot earrings. Madison took the eyewear and tried on the woman's selection. Glancing into a mirror, she admired the cateyes shape of the frames. The lenses were rose-tinted and put a happy glow on everything in sight. "See? They are exactly what you need." The woman smiled her satisfaction. "I am Ines Cordova, by the way. And I don't believe in shopping alone." "Madison Blair. And I appreciate it." She had thought she'd been good about giving herself a fresh perspective this week on her indulgence retreat, but her efforts were greatly enhanced by rose-colored glasses. "Tinted lenses are a great idea." Ines tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear, her bracelets jangling an optimistic tune. "They'll put a little romance in your life. Just you wait and see." The two women moved toward the next display case to peruse headbands and hats. Madison sighed, thinking about how much she'd always screwed up her love life. "I don't know about romance. I'll just be happy to treat myself to a few new experiences." "Romance is always a new experience," Ines insisted, searching quickly through the pile of wool and acrylic to pull out a pink cashmere headband and hold it up to Madison's face. "And it's a state of mind. You romance yourself first and then you'll be ready to find romance with someone else. My best friend is getting married next week and she's living proof." Madison had some serious doubts about Ines's approach, but she was too sensitive to the woman's feelings to argue. Trying on the headband, she fell in love with it immediately. "I never would have chosen pink. It's gorgeous." "See what those glasses will do?" Ines winked as she picked up her own shopping bags. "I need to go find a little romance of my own this morning, but don't you forget what I told you. Taking a few chances on new experiences is a great idea. Just don't forget to keep your eye open for romance, too. "
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Madison watched Ines juggle her shopping bags out the door and into the main lobby, where the woman met up with a tall bear of a man who hurried to take her packages from her. Definitely a gentleman. Too bad the man Madison had in mind today had made no apologies for not being more of a gentleman. But in light of her talk with Ines, Madison couldn't help but wonder if she was being close-minded not to at least explore the undeniable chemistry that had sparked between them last night. She was here to take chances after all. Try new experiences. And she had the feeling that Nathan Abrams was one experience that was simply too good to pass up ? a better deal than even the two-for-one snowshoes on the clearance rack. Chapter Seven "J. D., I hope you're pulling my leg." Trudging through the snowy backwoods, Nathan studied J. D. Drollette, one of the few friends he'd made in his years in the Adirondacks and also his only customer on this afternoon's final snowshoeing trip. J.D. was a popular radio talk show personality and local sports commentator in the Lake Placid region, but off the air, J.D. appreciated a little peace and quiet as much as Nathan did. The two had formed a friendship based on their mutual love of the North Country. And shared addictions to snowshoes in the winter, whitewater rafting in the summer. Now, they stomped through the soft white snow back to Nathan Tours headquarters in a log cabin along the Saranac River. J.D. shook his head. "It's no joke. I'm staying at the Hearthside this week and all the staff has been talking about the New York magazine writer who's here to check out Lake Placid. One of Wanderlust's best-known columnists checked into the hotel yesterday." Definitely not good news. At least not for Adirondackers who prized their solitude the way Nathan did. "But that doesn't mean he's here on assignment for the magazine. Maybe he's just taking a vacation." Nathan adjusted the strap on his backpack filled with emergency equipment in case of bad weather. "It's a she." J.D. scuffed his shoe sideways to send a spray of snow across Nathan's ski jacket. "And the Hearthside staffers say that's what a lot of travel writers do when they want to get a fair story. They don't really advertise their magazine affiliation." "But everybody knows it anyway." It made no sense to Nathan. With any luck, J.D.'s sources were dead wrong about all this. The last thing Nathan wanted was to have his mountains turn into the next must-see destination in some chichi travel publication. The Adirondacks definitely didn't need half of Manhattan jetting in for long weekends and overpopulating the wooded serenity. "Of course, everybody knows it anyway. The columnist is Madison Blair." J.D. unstrapped his shoes just outside the cabin. "You coming?" Nathan blinked. Tried to shake off the unwelcome surprise. "Madison Blair?" Chapter Eight Nathan couldn't have possibly heard that correctly. He shook snow off his head as he covered the last few feet to his cabin.
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For a crazy moment, he'd thought J. D. Drollette had just told him that the well-known columnist who was doing a feature piece on the Adirondacks was Madison Blair. But surely Nathan was just daydreaming about Madison and her half-naked body too much and he'd filled in her name by mistake. "That's right. Madison Blair. Capital M. Capital B." J.D. slugged him in the arm. "I thought you'd done some traveling yourself before you turned into a hermit up here. You've never heard of her?" Oh, he'd heard of her all right. Just not in association with any big-league travel magazine. And he definitely hadn't pegged her for a cosmopolitan jet-setter. Nathan had learned to give spoiled city girls a wide berth. Hadn't he? Climbing out of his snowshoes, Nathan tromped through a foot of fresh powder that had fallen today toward the cabin he'd built with his own two hands. "Sorry, J.D. My travels for my investment firm usually involve hit-and-run stays in the business district of cities in the Asian markets. And I don't think I ever consulted a travel guide other than a street map." He had a hard time picturing last night's blushing mermaid as a globe-trotting pacesetter for New York's pampered elite. Hanging both sets of shoes in the equipment shed outside the cabin, Nathan assured himself Madison really was different. Special. There'd been undeniable chemistry last night, no matter what the woman did for a living. And if she was going to try to drag the sleepy Adirondack town into a glitzy international spotlight, he owed it to himself and all the other solitude-seekers in these mountains to convince her otherwise. Before he could formulate a plan to locate a nocturnal mermaid before noon, the door to his offices opened from the inside and Madison appeared, as if he'd somehow willed her there. Wearing mouthwatering ski pants and a come-and-get-me smile, she held the door wide-open for him. "You're just the man I was looking for." Chapter Nine Madison shivered from the cold blast of air through the open door ? not to mention the heat of Nathan's assessing gaze. She had only been waiting for Nathan for a few minutes in the small lobby area of Nathan Tours, but it had been long enough to make her edgy, nervous. After her day of total self-indulgence at the Hearthside spa, she'd felt ready to tackle the world. She'd charged over to the small log cabin that housed Nathan's business with a great sense of adventure and purpose, but in those moments of waiting, a few of her self-doubts crept back. What if this man was more adventure than she could handle? She watched as Nathan said goodbye to a friend he called J.D. ? a tall, broad-shouldered man with a slow, deliberate step. And then, before she knew it, Nathan had parted with his companion and was turning toward her, giving her his complete, undivided attention. It was a heady thing.
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His hazel eyes missed nothing, his hot gaze making her heart kick up its pace. But other than those sharp, steady eyes, Nathan bore little resemblance to the man in perfectly creased Armani trousers from last night. Today, he wore a blue parka and jeans with boots. As he closed the cabin door behind them and unzipped his coat, Madison spied the gray T-shirt with a navy and hunter green flannel shirt over top of it. He looked more like a lumberjack than a scion of Wall Street the way he had last night. Curious about the man ? and not quite ready to admit the purpose of her visit ? Madison couldn't resist asking him about it. "Flannel by day and Armani by night?" she prodded, hoping she wasn't being too nosy. "Sort of makes a girl wonder which is the real you." Hanging his jacket on the wooden coat tree by the door, Nathan's hazel gaze wandered over her. Slowly. A hungry fire leaped up inside her where there had been a slow sizzle. He wandered closer, caused her skin to tighten and tingle. Plucking up her hand, he studied her fresh manicure in Provocative Pomegranate and enclosed her newly sloughed and smoothed fingers in his own. "A half-naked mermaid by night and a spa maven by day." He grazed her palm with his thumb, a tiny caress with maximum seductive power. "I could ask the same question of you, Madison." Chapter Ten Nathan watched the progress of Madison's pink tongue over her lips and decided he couldn't wait more than five minutes to kiss her. "I asked you first, Nathan. Which is the real you ? the guy in the power-executive suit or the proprietor of Nathan Tours?" Her voice held a note of husky suggestion, but she couldn't hold his gaze. Before he could frame a response in his sluggish brain that could only think about how soon he could kiss her, Madison picked up one of his brochures from the front corner of his desk. "So you put together white-water rafting trips, extended hikes on the more remote mountains, snowshoeing groups...." She roamed the page with a journalist's eagle eye. "Do you get much out-of-town traffic through here?" Oh, no. He wasn't going there. Nor would he expect a travel writer to appreciate the merits of slow business in favor of overcrowded tour groups or socialite participants who were more interested in the next high-end gift shop than the beauty of the mountains. "This isn't really my main business." He hoped it wasn't too obvious he was avoiding the question, but he didn't want to run the risk of piquing her professional interests by talking about his work as an Adirondack guide. "I've been an investments broker since college." Reaching for the button on the gas woodstove in the center of the small office that doubled as a lobby, Nathan decided to redirect her before she did him any favors like putting his business in her feature piece. How convenient that he already had an idea in mind for how to distract her. Tugging the brochure from her grasp, Nathan pitched the paper back on his desk. "Is business really what you came here to talk about, Madison? Because ? technically speaking ? I'm not sure that I keep office hours on the weekend."
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And not so technically speaking, Nathan was more interested in finding out something about Madison Blair outside of her work for Wanderlust. Something about her penchant for swimming half-naked in public places would be an interesting place to start.... "No?" She arched an eyebrow. Caramel highlights shone in her hair from the firelight cast by the black enamel stove. "No. But that's not to say I'm not happy to see you. On the contrary, I've been thinking about you ever since last night." Nonstop, in fact. And in light of that knowledge, Nathan couldn't help but wonder if his plan to distract her wasn't totally selfish on his part. No doubt, he was rationalizing here in order to do what he really wanted. Which was to dive right into Madison Blair's dark eyes and cover her soft mouth with his own. Chapter Eleven Dive in. Madison's knees felt just a little weak despite the sound pine floor of Nathan's cabin beneath her feet. She repeated her new mantra to give herself courage. Had he really just said he'd been thinking about her since last night? That very interesting news, combined with the fact that Nathan had been staring at her mouth for the past three seconds urged Madison to act. This was what she'd wanted all along. This was why she came to his cabin today. Dive in. They moved toward one another at the same time, and before she knew it, she was kissing Nathan Abrams. Not some soft, exploratory kiss either. No, when Madison had decided to dive in, she didn't bother to hold anything back. The log walls seemed to grow closer, increasing the intimacy of just the two of them in the middle of nowhere. Together. Somehow her hands had found their way to his broad shoulders. And she wasn't resting them against him so much as she pulled him more tightly to her. In the two years with her last boyfriend, she'd never once kissed him like this. She felt consumed by fire and hunger ? so much so that it had to be obvious to Nathan. Put then, Nathan was kissing her right back as if he wanted more ? much more ? than a mating of the mouths. His hands slid beneath her open ski jacket to the small of her back and the lavender cashmere twin set she'd splurged on for her trip to the mountains. And even though Madison might have initiated the kiss, Nathan's lips moved against hers with exquisite thoroughness and a definite sense of possession. Her breasts tightened against the hard wall of his chest. And she'd be willing to guess that he felt it straight through two layers of cashmere and one skimpy silk bra because he chose that precise moment to move one hand to cup her through the material, his thumb tracing slow circles toward the center of one peaked, aching nipple. Sensation zinged through her, awakening every nerve and making her intensely aware of the hard heat of him all around her. A flood of heat rolled through her like a seductive wave and Madison realized what she wanted to indulge in this week more than anything else.
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One hundred percent pure, undiluted Nathan. Chapter Twelve Nathan hadn't been expecting anything like this when he'd closed the cabin door behind them. Madison had seemed at times a little shy, or else interested in his business, and then ka-bam. Her lips told a whole dfferent story. If he stayed here any longer with Miss Combustible he'd be too far gone to do anything but have her on her back inside of ten minutes. And no matter how hot her kisses were at the moment, that was probably not what she'd had in mind for a first date. Pulling away with more than a little regret, Nathan found pleasure in seeing how long it took for her eyelids to flutter open again. A solid three count before she focused on him. "I don't want to mess up the first date, Madison, but if we stay here..." He nodded toward the open archway leading to his living quarters. She swallowed hard. Nodded. "The kisses are pretty potent. You want to take a walk through town? I heard they're gearing up for a big ice carnival this week." Nathan wasn't taking any chances on Madison getting charmed by the ice sculptures and the dog sled races. She'd have time enough to see those things later in the week. When she wouldn't have much time left to write about them. Wracking his brain for what they could do that didn't involve the curious eyes of the rest of Lake Placid, Nathan got an idea as he looked out the window into the crisp, clear night. "Do you like to ice-skate?" *** Fifteen minutes later, Madison had strapped on a pair of skates from Nathan's overflowing equipment shed and was gliding across the smooth ice of a frozen pond for the first time in fifteen years. Well, maybe gliding was stretching it. She wobbled a little at first, finding her skating legs. And here or there the stub of a tall reed poked through the pond to mar the surface, but other than that, she sailed along on the skates' sharp blades, the night breeze lifting her hair from her neck to fly in a dark banner behind her. Raising her arms above her head, she let out a howl of joy. Even better than diving into a pool half-naked, skating in the dark under a star-filled Adirondack sky seemed all the more spine-tingling with a sexy tour guide on the ice behind her. As she wove around the pond reeds and skated closer to Nathan, Madison didn't allow herself to weigh the consequences before she asked the question that had been teasing the edges of her brain. "So do you think if we spend a few hours out here getting to know one another, we'll have earned the right to get back to the kissing?" Chapter Thirteen Nathan liked the way this woman thought ? and right now his thoughts were hot enough to melt the icedover pond under them.
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The more he got to know her, the more he realized it was impossible not to like Madison. She was conservative with a little wild streak. Adventurous without being over the top. Having spent his entire adult life as an investor ? first in the thick of New York's Financial District, and now from the comfort of a linked computer ? Nathan could appreciate those qualities. And he could definitely identify with the desire to return to their shared kisses. "I'm game if you are. I only thought we should leave the cabin if we didn't want to rush things. But I bet I could be persuaded right back to where we left off ?" "Not yet. Leaving was a good idea." She skated around him. Stopped in front of him. A small spray of ice kicked up on his pant leg from her skates and her snappy turn. "Maybe we'd feel a little more entitled to those kisses if we got to know each other better first." He nodded, sensing the wisdom behind the plan even as anticipation steamed through him. "Talk now, kiss later." "Exactly." Her smile was a fine thing. Warm and sexy and just for him. "So how do we pack a week's worth of dates into an evening? Not that I'm rushing this or anything." She drummed one finger against her chin while she gave the matter serious thought. "How about the dating version of Twenty Questions? Or we could interview each other. I'm a journalist in my real life, so I've got excellent interview experience. Not that I'm rushing either." "Of course not." He had to laugh. When had it been this much fun to be with a woman? He couldn't even remember a time like this while he'd been dating Phoebe. Too busy trying to build a perfect world complete with the ultimate job and the ideal wife, Nathan had been in such a hurry to close the deal with a wedding ring that he hadn't really considered whether or not marriage would make him happy. But with Madison...he couldn't help but think maybe he could be himself with her, break down some of those walls of solitude he'd carefully erected after Phoebe and her high-maintenance lifestyle had all but bankrupted him. Financially, he'd recovered ? thrived even. But he hadn't been in any rush to jump back into a relationship. At least, not until tonight. Maybe tonight he'd be able to talk to her about her feature story on the Adirondacks, about his reservations, and just put it all out on the table. "You go first," he prodded. "I'll get a sense of how this fast-forward dating interview process works from you and then I'll put you in the hot seat." "Fair enough." She skated away toward the edge of the ice where he'd left the thermos of hot chocolate and a blanket. "First question ? has anyone ever broken your heart?" Chapter Fourteen It was sort of a romantic's question ? has anyone ever broken your heart? Madison hadn't really known she was going to ask it until it fell out of her mouth. Maybe Ines and her rosecolored glasses were rubbing off on her. Her grip tightened around the thermos of hot cocoa. But it was the kind of question that would clue her in to whether or not Nathan Abrams had a heart. Because as far as Madison was concerned, that was a growing problem with men these days. Too caught up in their own lives to put themselves on the line for anyone else.
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Her ex-boyfriend had gladly used their relationship to make his life easier ? she dropped off his dry cleaning with hers every month and she served as a low-fuss date for corporate functions he needed to attend. No doubt, he'd probably viewed her as pretty damn convenient sex, too. But he'd never really invested much emotion in her or thought about what she might need or want from him in return. "Well, Madison, you don't pull punches, do you?" He skated her way, taking his time as he scrubbed a hand over his chest as if he well remembered the heartbreak in question. "Would you rather start small and work up? You know, tell me what your favorite color is and all that?" She dropped down to the narrow split rail perched on a couple of logs that served as a bench. Cracking open the thermos of cocoa, she poured half a steaming cup in the plastic top. "No. But be warned, I'm thinking if we start here we're bound to earn a trip back to the cabin before too long." He brushed off the snow from his side of the bench and took a seat next to her. The sexy smile he shot her way warmed her insides far more than the hot chocolate. "Then we're definitely on the same page." She handed him the stainless steel cup and he took it, careful to drink from precisely the same spot that she had. A shiver went through her that had nothing to do with the crisp February night air. "To answer your question," he started, handing the empty cup back to her. "I don't know if my heart has ever been broken, but it's taken me plenty long to bounce back after my divorce two years ago." "You've been married?" Not that it was a bad thing. At least, unlike Madison's last beau, Nathan wasn't afraid to dive in. Nodding, he stared up at the sky. "For three years and two months. I knew I'd made a mistake sooner than that, but it took me at least a year to admit to myself I'd screwed up. And it took every bit of that time for Phoebe to spend her way through all our credit cards. Nearly hitting bankruptcy made me realize I needed to ditch my pride and haul out of there before things got any worse." "I've heard a huge percentage of couples break up over money issues." Although Madison couldn't imagine putting a price tag on love. Her new friend Ines would be proud of her. "But the more time that passes since the divorce, the more I wonder if we really split up over money." "Oh?" Madison arched an eyebrow, curious. Surely it showed sensitivity on a man's part if he spent time strategizing how he could have made relationships work. "I think we both just made poor decisions when we decided to get married. We went into it for all the wrong reasons and we didn't really know each other." He shifted on the bench, turning toward her, sending her senses on high alert. She hadn't been able to banish the thought of his kisses from her mind, but she wasn't ready to forego the getting-to-know-you phase just yet. "You should have used the fast-forward dating interview process," she teased. He smiled back at her. "Which brings to mind a question, Ms. Blair. Has there ever been a man foolish enough to break your heart?" Chapter Fifteen Madison bit her lip when he shot her own question back at her. She hesitated, her breath huffing a small white cloud into the dark night air. Then she smiled. "You sure I can't opt out of this for the 'what's your favorite color' line of questioning?"
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"If I had to stand in the line of fire, I think it's only fair you take a turn." Besides, he wanted to know more about her. Wanted to share more of himself with her. All evening Nathan kept thinking he needed to tell her his reservations about the story she was writing, too. She could ignore them if she wanted, but he owed it to her to at least be honest about how publicizing his mountains made him feel. The Adirondacks were like a hidden gift. If people were lucky enough to find them, they deserved to be there. The mountains didn't need to be splashed all over chic travel magazines to attract the kind of people who wouldn't fully appreciate their simple, rustic appeal. "I can honestly say I broke my own heart, I guess. I called it quits with the guy I'd been seeing for two years just a couple of weeks before I came up here." Damn. He probably should have gone with the favorite color question. "I'm sorry, Madison ?" "No. Trust me, this was a good thing. I was acting out both halves of our relationship anyway, pretending everything was great for us when we had nothing in common except maybe an aversion to the dating scene. I think we were both comfortable with not having to be out there taking risks. But that's no excuse for settling for someone who isn't really passionate about you." Her eyes flickered his way when she mentioned the word passionate. Damn, but he liked that. "So you're not going through a major rebound or anything?" "Definitely not. I booked a week at the Hearthside to prove to myself I could take a few risks and think about myself for a change." She thumped her chest with the sentiment, her parka absorbing the impact. "I'm done working to make other people happy ? that is, people who don't really care if I'm happy in return. No more doormat behavior from this woman-in-charge. I'm making my own rules this week." He held his hands up in mock surrender. "No arguments from me." She laughed. "Sorry to get so fired up about it. I just need to remind myself of my mission this week so I don't fall into old patterns. I figure if I remind myself often enough, I'll follow through." Nathan understood all too well. And now he realized why he couldn't tell her his objections to her article tonight. She was fighting her own personal battle to be more assertive. He'd be a first-rate dirtbag if he turned around and asked her not to write a story for her magazine because of what he wanted the Adirondacks to be. He'd just have to get over himself and what he wanted. She deserved to make her own decisions about what to put in her magazine. Bottom line, after less than twenty-four hours, Madison Blair was growing more important to him than his two-year attachment to the North Country. Nathan accepted that easily. He just wondered exactly what he would do with her when they returned to the seclusion of his cabin?. Chapter Sixteen Anticipation tripped through Madison as she took off her coat inside Nathan's cabin. They'd talked for hours out on the ice. Now she knew a lot more about him than his favorite color. She knew he went to the Hearthside pool at three a.m. with regularity because he needed to unwind from his long days running his business. He was as dedicated to his work ? both his investments and his tour guide business ? as she was to hers. Madison had the feeling that he was probably a workaholic before his marriage to the illustrious Phoebe, but that his brush with near-bankruptcy thanks to his wife had made him even more professionally driven. His
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time spent snowshoeing and white-water rafting were probably attempts to give himself some much-needed downtime ? while working. But right now, with Nathan pouring her a glass of his best amaretto ? they'd learned through Madison's fastforward interview process that it was their mutual favorite drink ? she didn't want to think about Nathan's work or his ex-wife. Following his broad shoulders into the back half of the cabin, Madison slipped through an archway behind the lobby area she'd seen earlier. He led her to a studio area that wasn't so much a bedroom as it was a miniature short-term living setup. The kitchen was no more than a two-burner range, fridge, and a few cabinets. The living area probably doubled as the bedroom with a sofa, area rug, and another gas woodstove built into the wall to look like a fireplace. Nathan flipped the switch for the stove, and the cabin was filled with warm, flickering light. She wanted to ask him more about the place and whether or not he lived there in the tiny studio behind his business, but Nathan clinked his glass against hers before she had the chance. "Happy anniversary." He took a sip of amaretto, the muscles of his throat catching her eye while she wondered what he was talking about. "We've known each other exactly twenty-four hours." Glancing at the brass clock above the mantel, she saw the clock was just striking three a.m. "We talked the whole night away." "Tired?" His hazel eyes reflected the firelight. Or was he burning with a little fire of his own, the way she was right now? Madison took a mental inventory of how she was feeling right now with Nathan two steps away from her. Her heart slugged a heavy beat against her chest. Her breath came in shallow, quick gulps. And every inch of her longed for his touch. "I don't think I've ever felt less tired, actually." Chapter Seventeen Nathan couldn't believe his luck. Madison stood in front of him, slowly sipping her amaretto and watching. Waiting. For him. He'd practically buried himself up here in the mountains for two years, never meeting anyone but inquisitive locals who wanted to know all about his business and what his plans were for staying in the area. And then, the first woman he met turned out to be someone as impatient and driven as him, who didn't want to wait to take their relationship to the next level. On top of that, Madison was a sexy sensualist who liked to skinny-dip. What more could a man ask for? Still, in spite of their mutual impatience, Nathan knew he shouldn't rush tonight. Sliding her glass from her hands, he set their drinks on an end table near the sofa and covered her lips with his own. Silky and sweet, she tasted like the amaretto but hotter. Nathan drew her closer by her shoulders, then couldn't resist traveling the length of her arms with his hands. The lavender cashmere of her sweater was plush and soft, but he only wanted to peel it away from her skin to touch her with nothing between them.
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Forcing himself to take his time, he trailed his palms over her waist to rest on her hips. She sighed with her whole body, from the little breathy catch in her throat to the way she leaned all the more heavily into him, rubbed herself against him. And he didn't stand a chance of going slow. They had all night to take their time. All week, if he had anything to say about it. Right now, he needed to act on the fire burning inside them both before they caught flame right in the middle of his cabin floor. Her clothes disappeared as if he willed them away. Sweater, top, slacks, shoes ? they must be strewn about the cabin somewhere, but all he could focus on was what still needed to go. One yellow lace bra and one tiny scrap of yellow bikini underwear. And then she was perfectly naked, even more so than the first time he'd met her. Nathan was pulling her to the floor with him, his own clothes long gone, too. He'd tossed a chenille throw from the back of the sofa onto the floor and he smoothed it out beneath them now, kissing Madison Blair's sexy, amaretto lips the whole time. He wanted everything to be perfect for her and he knew it probably wouldn't be ? not this first time when he wanted her so badly he couldn't see straight. But if he could make things perfect enough to entice her to stay all night ? or all week ? he would definitely scavenge the patience and restraint to provide her with every provocative pleasure her sensualist nature craved. Right now, she urged him on with every breathless moan and impatient wriggle of her slender body. And he was powerless to deny her. Or himself. She stole from his hands the condom he'd grabbed from a drawer and rolled it on him in one smooth stroke. That simple touch alone was enough to make him grit his teeth for control. Steadying her thighs with his hands, Nathan eased his way inside her, grateful she wanted this as much ? as soon ? as he did. The silken heat of her drove him to the brink. He managed to stave off his own satisfaction only by focusing every ounce of his thoughts on her. Her needs. Her wants. Ignoring the heady scent of floral fragrance and warm woman, Nathan concentrated on finding just the right touch that would please her. Make her forget her own name. He elicited gasps, moans, and sighs, but only when he plucked the sweet center of her with his finger and thumb, and drew her nipple deeply into his mouth did he find the hot button that made her whole body tense and tighten. Victory poured through him for all of two seconds before his own release swamped him, made him forget both their names. And as he held her in his arms, his nose buried in her silky hair, Nathan wondered if she would consider turning her retreat week into the most sensual of adventures?. Chapter Eighteen Two days and three amazing, toe-curling nights had passed since Madison had first walked into the cabin that served as Nathan's business base and his emergency living quarters if the weather turned severe. Of course, the small studio area in the back looked well lived-in now. Over the course of the past three nights, Madison and Nathan had barely left the bed that pulled out from the sofa. When they did, it was only to make love on the floor in front of the fire. Or on the kitchen table. Or ? Madison's favorite ? in the shower. Now, Madison sat propped in bed while Nathan brought her breakfast on a tray ? really a Pop-Tart on a cookie sheet ? and handed her a copy of the morning paper. He set the tray on the bed and kissed her, softly at first and then, as she clung to him longer, more urgently.
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"You know we can't," he whispered in her ear as he traced the bottom of her lobe with his tongue. "I used the last condom on the kitchen table." "I just want to give you incentive to hurry back," she whispered back, trailing her hand across his lap. He stood with a groan. "If you give me any more incentive I'll be too damn light-headed to drive." Satisfied she'd accomplished her goal, Madison waved him away, munching on her Pop-Tart while she opened the morning paper and wondered if today would be the day she needed to reenter the real world. God, she hoped not. Her time with Nathan had been exquisite. Not only had the days been a feast for her senses and a thorough lesson in self-indulgence, they had also taught her what was missing in her last relationship. And it was a hell of a lot more than great sex. Nathan asked her questions about her job, shared ideas about what he thought made great places to travel. He went to her magazine's web site and read all her archived columns when she was sleeping since he needed less shut-eye than she did. Best of all, he listened to her rant about her trouble clinching her longanticipated promotion and gave her some great counter-strategy ideas. Including offering up a few of her columns on a freelance basis to some other publications. Nathan had asked if she thought they might stir her own company to keep her under lock and key with the bigger title and salary she felt she deserved. In short, Nathan gave back all the things she normally gave in a relationship. Being with him wasn't a oneway street. And he was oh-so-generous in the bedroom?. Just thinking about some of the things they'd done together made her blush ? even when the man was ten minutes away at the closest pharmacy. Distracting herself with the morning news, Madison's eye jumped to the headline of an opinion column down one side of the local section in the daily paper ? "Adirondacks Seek National Exposure." vInterestingly enough, the article chatted all about the commotion a certain travel writer from Wanderlust was causing with her presence around town. The columnist's opinion was that the locals should treat a certain Ms. Blair to an Adirondack experience she wouldn't forget so that she'd say great things about the region if she opted to do a feature story. Most of the people the columnist had interviewed around town seemed to support the push to garner national exposure for the area. All except one Nathan Abrams who was quoted to have said he thought the mountains ought to remain New York's best-kept secret. And as a sharp ache started in Madison's heart, she suddenly knew exactly why Nathan hadn't wanted her to step foot out of the cabin for the past two days and three nights. While she'd been thinking Nathan was the world's most thoughtful man to indulge her every wish, he'd been carefully following an agenda of his own this week ? to keep Madison satisfied and otherwise engaged. As her blood started to boil, Madison shoved aside her half-eaten breakfast with more than a little regret. Obviously, her week of "me" time had come to an end. Chapter Nineteen Nathan stood in line at the local One-Stop and cursed small-town life.
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Much as he loved the Adirondacks, he really resented buying a box of condoms in a store where he knew every single one of his fellow patrons. Snagging a newspaper that he didn't need off a nearby rack, Nathan smuggled his purchase to the counter. Only to have his back slapped by a friendly tree limb ? otherwise known as J. D. Drollette's right arm. "Hey, Nate. Did you see you're a local celebrity?" J.D. thumped the newspaper on the counter, causing the condom box to jump. So much for discretion. "Celebrity? No, I guess I missed it." He tossed a twenty at the cashier. J.D. was already thumbing through the paper while Nathan took his change and stuffed his illicit box in his coat pocket. "You're right here." J.D.'s thumb stabbed the spot. "Ines says she met this Madison Blair woman, by the way. Have you run into her yet?" But Nathan scarcely heard him. His eyes scanned the column and his quote about keeping the Adirondacks a secret. The reporter shouldn't have quoted him given that he'd made the comment in the most off-hand way three days ago. And he certainly hadn't known the woman was writing a story. Of course, Madison wouldn't know that. And he'd left the paper on her breakfast tray.... Hell. He needed to come up with a plan. And damn it, he'd need to act fast. Madison wasn't going to stick around to hear any lame explanations. She'd done so well asserting herself this week, Nathan never would have guessed she'd once harbored some pushover qualities. Scooping up the paper, he punched J.D. in the arm on his way out the door. "Do you believe in love at first sight, J.D.?" His friend paused. Deliberated. In the meantime, a petite Latino woman with long, dark hair and dangly feather earrings poked her head around the end of an aisle, a fashion magazine in hand. "Of course he believes in love at first sight," she interjected, scowling at J.D. with a glare that could be only a lover's right. J.D. smiled at her. Winked. And just then Nathan noticed J.D. was carrying a copy of the newspaper, too ? and damned if it didn't have the corner of a condom box peeking out from under it. "I think sometimes you just know." Excellent. J.D. and Ines were proof he wasn't crazy. "Are you guys going to be at the Ice Carnival today?" Nathan asked, one foot out the door. He couldn't wait for an answer because he had to hurry if he was going to pull this off. Instead he just shouted over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind him. "I'm definitely going to need some backup!" Chapter Twenty
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Madison parked her car and crossed the street to the annual Ice Carnival. She definitely didn't want to talk to Nathan about what she'd read in today's paper, so she was hiding out here for an hour before her plane left. That's probably why she'd allowed a loser boyfriend to walk all over her and a tightwad boss to withhold the promotion she deserved. Even after her retreat week, she still stunk at confrontation. But the difference in the new Madison was that she wouldn't stick around a situation in which she wasn't appreciated. And especially not when she'd been duped. Therefore, she was hauling out of Lake Placid on a two o'clock charter flight and leaving behind the ice sculptures and igloos she never got to fully enjoy. Cowardly? Maybe. But in her mind, she'd come a long way by being able to say, This sucks, and walk away. Even if it practically ripped her heart out to follow her new instincts. She had no idea how she'd come to care about Nathan so much over the course of three days, but she'd dived right in, damn it. Apparently her dating interview process was hideously ineffective because she never would have pegged Nathan for the kind of guy who would have stood between her and her work. A cheer went up from a crowd on the ice twenty yards away. While Madison peered over at the group of revelers with flashbulbs popping, her shopping buddy Ines squeezed her way out of the throng and waved a purple-mittened hand. "Madison, come here!" She ran over to Madison and dragged her closer to the crowd. "Nathan Abrams just won the ice fishing derby!" Madison ground her heels into the ice. She had no idea how Ines knew about her connection to Nathan, but she wasn't waiting around to find out. And she definitely wasn't waiting around to see...him. Her gaze connected with Nathan's as the small crowd parted between them. Madison recognized Nathan's friend J.D. at his side, along with several Hearthside Inn staffers. And thanks to a mug shot in this morning's paper, she was even able to pick out the columnist from the Adirondack News. It helped that the woman wore a heavy camera around her neck and even now flashed a photo of Nathan with his pile of fish. Nathan took a step toward her, dragging every bit of the group's attention along with him. "I competed in ice fishing in the hopes of taking a first place prize today." He talked to the crowd as much as he talked to her, this loner who had told her he went to the pool at three a.m. to avoid people. "You know why I wanted to take first place today, Madison?" She arched an eyebrow, curious. Even though all of the first places in Lake Placid wouldn't excuse his underhanded tactics for keeping her away from her work while pretending to be besotted with her. The skunk. "I needed a first place to get another quote in the paper." He reached for her arms, wrapped his gloved fingers about her shoulders. "Your last quote in the paper already said quite a bit." "But this time, I wanted to be sure to add that me not wanting the Adirondacks to turn into the next Vail or Aspen doesn't mean I don't want you to do your job." He stared into her eyes as if there wasn't anyone around but them. The same way he had stared into her eyes for the last three amazing nights. "And I also wanted to be sure to say that just because I'm a loner doesn't mean I expect you to be. Or that I'd ever hoard you all to myself. Unless you wanted me to, that is." Something warm and tender and oh-so-precious unfurled inside her. Slowly. Carefully. Could she trust this man that she'd known for such a short time? "You wouldn't?"
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"I should have told you I'm not a rah-rah publicist type as far as the mountains are concerned. But I didn't want to rain on your parade." He looked around at his neighbors and friends as if finally aware they were there, too. "This was your week, damn it. You should be doing what you want to do. I swear to you, Madison, all the time we spent together ? that was just because I wanted to be with you, not because I wanted to interfere with your work." Maybe confrontation wasn't always such a bad thing. "If I do a feature on the Adirondacks ?" A hopeful gasp rippled through the crowd. "And I'm not promising I can, but if I do and Lake Placid turns into next year's hot spot, I'm pretty sure that I can find you five more exotic, remote locales where we can run away and be loners, Nathan." She edged closer to him, confident her instincts were dead-on with this man. "I have the feeling you could use a vacation or two in your work schedule." Nathan smiled, a slow sexy smile just for her. "And I have the feeling I'm going to indulge you in that, Madison Blair." He kissed her for all of the town to see. Madison had no doubt who would be on the front cover of the Adirondak News tomorrow morning. She could already see the headlines ? "Local Couple Takes First Prize?"
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In Bed with the Boss by Sharon Kendrick After one passionate night together, Blake Devlin left Josephine Spencer without even a note - and immediately became engaged to another woman. Josephine rushed into marriage with a charming actor who just happened to be Blake?s cousin. A year later, circumstances thrust them together again? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| Chapter One Prologue He started with her ankles, which were the most delicious ankles he had ever seen, then his eyes traveled slowly to her knees, and beyond. From across the room, he made a leisurely appraisal of slim hips and a tiny waist, exquisite breasts and hair the color of fire. He saved the face until last, and when at last his gaze reached the huge emerald eyes and pouty pink lips, he almost choked on his glass of champagne. ?Josephine?? he silently mouthed in incredulous question, and because she hadn't moved, he walked over to where she stood. ?Josephine?? Josephine's heart was racing and her hands felt clammy, but not just because he was the most devastating man in the room - he had always had precisely that effect on her. ?Of course it's me, Blake,? she remonstrated. ?Surely you recognized me?? There was a pause. ?Not really.? Last time he'd seen her, she'd had braces on her teeth and freckles. The little girl next door. In the tiny village they'd lived in he had watched her grow from toddler to teenager. And now? He swallowed, even though he was no longer drinking. ?You've...you've grown up all of a sudden.? ?But I'm 23 years old now, Blake,? she said softly. ?And you live in London now?? he guessed. ?That's right. You, too?? ?Mmm.? God, she was beautiful! More than beautiful. ?How long since we've seen each other?? She stared into the ice-blue eyes. She could have told him to the exact minute. ?Oh, must be about seven years,? she said casually. ?Not since you moved away.? He couldn't take his eyes off her. ?What kind of work do you do?? he questioned casually. ?I'm a model.? A model. Yes. That would explain the sudden transformation from duckling to dazzling swan. ?A successful model?? he questioned. She gave a modest smile. ?Kind of.? She sipped her drink and smiled at him. ?How about you?? The smile beguiled him. ?I'm a venture capitalist.?
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?Sounds like a bandit!? He laughed. ?Does it?? A bandit might have carried her straight off to bed with him, something he uncharacteristically - felt just like doing. ?Do I look like a bandit?? Kind of, she thought, but shook her head. ?No, you look like a venture capitalist!? ?How about another drink?? His lips curved in a smile. ?Or would you rather dance?? There was no choice! But she managed to shrug her shoulders, as if she didn't mind either way. ?I love dancing,? she admitted. Normally, he could take it or leave it, and he couldn't remember the last time he had danced with a woman who wasn't Kim. But the opportunity to hold her was too much to miss. ?Me, too. Come on, then.? The gods must have been looking down on her, because at that moment the music slowed, and he took her in his arms and she felt almost dizzy, achingly aware of the hard, lean strength of his body. ?I - I like this song,? she said, rather shakily. ?Mmm.? He liked the drift of her scent even more. He absently pulled her closer and buried his lips in her hair and Josephine was unprepared for the shimmering of heat that skittered such debilitating sensations across her skin. Blake felt the sudden jackknifing of desire as her slender curves melted against his flesh like butter, and he had to stifle a moan. Maybe he'd better just take her home and say good-night. Sooner, rather than later. But he was seduced by the moonlight and the way she walked, the way she made him laugh. And a shared past could produce nostalgia...and nostalgia could be pretty potent stuff. He accepted coffee. And then another, and her eyes mesmerized him with their dazzling green fire. ?Guess I'd better think about leaving,? he said reluctantly. ?I guess so. It's been...fun.? ?Yeah.? She was lost in the light of his eyes. ?Goodbye, Blake.? ?Goodbye, Josephine.? She wondered if she would ever see him again, and when she reached up on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye, her lips somehow collided with the faint rasp of his jaw, and it felt so earthy that she shivered against him in unstoppable response.
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Something inexplicable exploded inside him and he turned his head and captured her mouth with his, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this was heading for the bedroom. ?I don't usually do this kind of thing,? he groaned, as the kiss got hotter and harder. Neither did she, but once again his mouth had hungrily covered hers and her words somehow got lost on his lips. It was the best night of Josephine's life, but in the morning he had left without asking to see her again, and much later she heard that he had gone back to Kim and that they had become engaged. And soon after that she had met his cousin Luke, and within three months they were married. Chapter Two Luke had gone. He hadn't even taken his toothbrush, but she knew he had gone. That fact hit her with a certainty even more intense than the blade of lightning that illuminated the bathroom with its harsh blue-white light. Josephine momentarily shrank from its impact, and winced. The toothbrush was still there, yes, but further investigation showed that her husband of just one year had cleared the rest of the house like a locust. Gone were the rows of designer suits and the handmade Italian shoes. Gone, too, were the priceless objets d'art which he had always insisted they buy. Or rather, that she buy, Josephine reminded herself bitterly. The lightning was followed by a thunderbolt that could have deafened the hounds of hell. And then the rain began - a rain so heavy and remorseless that the loud banging on the front door didn't register straight away. And when it did, she froze with a sinking feeling that felt almost like disappointment. Had he left, only to return? She ran into the hall and pulled open the door and the sight of the tall, drenched figure made her heart briefly suspend its frenzied beat. For it wasn't Luke who stood there like a dark avenging angel, but his cousin Blake. Blake. The man she had not seen for over a year - not since he had stormed round to her flat and told her that she would be a crazy fool to marry a man like Luke. ?B-Blake!? she gasped, but the word dried to sawdust in her mouth. ?Disappointed?? he drawled, but at least she was here. And she seemed to be okay. ?Expecting your husband, were you, sweetheart?? She shook her head, wishing he wouldn't use that word, not when he didn't mean it. ?He's taken all his clothes. He's gone.? ?I know he has,? he said grimly. Her eyes narrowed. ?How can you possibly -?
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But Blake wasn't listening. He had unceremoniously pushed his way past her, to stand dripping raindrops onto the beautiful, polished wooden floor. ?Shut the door!? he commanded, his eyes raking reluctantly over her skimpy evening dress. A pulse began to beat at his temple. So she still dressed to kill. ?Or were you hoping to freeze to death? Just shut the door, Josephine! Now!? Mutely she obeyed him. There was something about the tone of his voice that was impossible to ignore. But maybe if she had listened to him the last time around, she wouldn't be in this situation. She stared at him. They said that time healed, but time didn't always change the way someone made you feel. She hadn't seen him in over a year, but the sheer force of his personality was devastating as ever. As were his looks. The blue eyes were as vibrant as a summer sky and the hard, lean body as formidably gorgeous as it had ever been. Lucky Kim, she thought, forcing herself to remember in the most painful way possible that he had a fiancee. ?What are you doing here?? she whispered. ?And how on earth did you know that Luke had left, when I've only just found out myself?? He gave a cynical smile, which iced over her. ?Because he rang me from the airport.? ?The airport?? she repeated dully. ?Where was he going?? ?He didn't say.? ?I don't understand,? she breathed, and she heard him swear softly beneath his breath. ?I think you're just about to,? he gritted. ?He's with someone called Sadie.? The blue eyes bored into her questioningly. ?Know her?? Josephine nodded. ?Yes, I know her,? she said dully. Best friends weren't all they were cracked up to be, were they? And yet, deep down, he wasn't telling her anything that she hadn't already guessed. But despite the fact that Luke had gone, only one question nudged at the edges of her mind. ?So just why are you here, Blake?? Chapter Three Blake shrugged. ?I guess I've come to pick up the pieces.? Still feeling as though she was in the midst of some nightmare, Josephine stared at him uncomprehendingly. ?And what's that supposed to mean?? His eyes moved over her, noting the angular line of her collarbone and the way her hipbones jutted against the filmy material of her dress. As a model, she had always been slim, but now she looked as though a breath of wind could blow her away. Had marriage to his cousin turned her into a mere shadow of herself? ?How the hell can he afford to take off like that?? he demanded. Josephine stared at him blankly, because his words didn't make sense. Come to think of it, nothing made sense right now. ?What??
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?I think it might be a good idea if you took a look at your accounts,? he ground out. All she could see was his blue eyes burning into her. ?Accounts?? she echoed. It was only a hunch, but Blake knew his cousin well enough to suspect that he had taken more than his clothes with him. ?Just do it, will you?? he said quietly. ?I doubt whether Luke has financed his trip with the fruit of his own labors.? The rising sense of panic she felt was making her blood run cold, and though she shook her head in denial, she couldn't stop herself from suspecting the worst. But he wouldn't have taken her money, surely? Bad enough that he had walked off with one of her supposed friends - surely it couldn't get any worse than that? She could feel Blake's eyes on her as she walked to the bureau to find the telephone number of the bank. She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers and when it was answered she said, shakily, ?I'd like to know the balance of my current account, please. And could you check my savings account, too, please?? The sums quoted took her breath away and her fingers were trembling as she turned round to meet the piercing brilliance of his eyes. ?Both accounts are empty,? she said in a dead, flat voice. ?He's taken everything.? His mouth twisted, ruing an aunt who had showered everything on his pretty, petulant cousin. ?It seems that your precious Luke is nothing more than a common thief.? The rising panic was fast turning into a swamping tide. ?Oh, my God,? she breathed. ?He can't have done!? ?Well, it looks as if he damned well has!? He let out a low sigh of frustration. ?I told you that you were a fool to marry him, Josephine! I've known the guy for most of my life - I knew what he was like! You should have listened to me!? Yes, she should have listened to him, but how could she have done, when her perception of him had been tainted by the night she had spent in his arms? And the fact that he hadn't wanted her afterward. ?Does it make you feel better to say ?I told you so??? she questioned, her voice shaking with a sense of anger and outrage. He shook his head. ?You know, you're going to have to contact the police.? ?The police?? It was unthinkable, surely, to report her husband to the police? ?Of course you will!? he stated impatiently. ?Your precious Luke can't be allowed to get away with bleeding you dry! I presume that most of it was your money?? Of course it was. Luke's "acting" career had dried up around about the time she'd married him. They had lived off the small fortune she had earned as a model. And when she had decided to study for an alternative career, her fees at business school and the fact that neither of them had been earning had eaten into a fair bit of it. ?Yes,? she said dully. ?It was mine.? ?Well, surprise, surprise,? he murmured. And then, with threatened tears making her mouth taste salty, she turned to stare up at the impassive man who stood before her. ?Oh, Blake,? she whispered, because he might be forbidding, but at that moment he looked so damned strong. ?What the hell am I going to do??
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Chapter Four ?You could always go back on the catwalk,? Blake murmured. But Josephine shook her head. Her days of hanging around the cattle market, of being judged by the length of her legs and the swell of her breast were long gone. ?I'm through with modeling.? Blake's eyes glittered. ?You could always come and work for me.? ?You?? Disbelievingly, Josephine stared at the to-die-for face. ?You'd give me a job? Just like that?? ?Well, no, not just like that. Didn't I hear that you'd gone back to school? That you were planning to make your mark in the world of high finance?? She wasn't sure if it was sarcasm she could hear in his voice, but now was hardly the time for nitpicking about his attitude. ?But I know virtually nothing about venture capitalism.? Now the blue eyes gleamed. ?Oh, so you remember what I do for a living, do you, Josephine?? he questioned softly. She remembered a whole lot more besides, but that was a trip down memory lane that she did not intend taking. ?Like I said, it's not something I'm familiar with.? ?Well, it isn't exactly brain surgery,? he drawled. ?And you're a fast learner, aren't you?? Her cheeks flushed as she wondered whether he was referring to the things he had taught her in bed, but she pushed the thought away. ?Why?? she whispered. ?Why would you go out of your way to help me?? His mouth curved. Did she think that if she turned those big, green eyes on him, she could twist him around her little finger like she'd done once before, and make him act in a way that was alien to him? Because before Josephine, he'd never had a one-night stand in his life. Never. ?Oh, don't flatter yourself that it's because your plight is making my heart bleed for you,? he murmured. ?You got yourself into this situation and part of me feels like telling you to get yourself out of it, but -? ?But?? ?Luke may be a worthless airhead,? he mused. ?But the fact remains that he happens to be related to me and his behavior leaves a rather nasty taste in my mouth.? ?And the scandal wouldn't do your reputation any good, I suppose?? He gave a cool smile. ?Oh, I wouldn't worry your head about that. My reputation speaks for itself - and some two-bit marital breakdown wouldn't affect it. No, I'm in a position to offer you a job, that's all. I will give you a job, until you decide what you want to do.? She eyed him warily. ?A job doing what?? He elevated the elegant curve of his eyebrows. ?Why, doing what you do best, of course - being decorative.? Some women might have taken that as a compliment, but not Josephine. Men always took her at face value, and never saw beneath the pretty face, until sometimes even she wondered if she were all superficial glamour, with no real substance beneath. ?Decorative in what way??
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His eyes narrowed. Did she think he was going to demand that she use the potent weapon of her sensuality to please him? Lie draped around his office, half-naked, perhaps? He felt the jerk of desire. ?My receptionist, Sallie, is going on maternity leave and I need someone to replace her. Someone to sit behind a desk and answer the phone and smile prettily at all the visitors. Using you might work out better than employing a temp. Think you could manage that, Josephine?? A receptionist! Not exactly what she'd had in mind when she'd sweated over management strategies and long-term projections! But Blake Devlin ran a highly successful company - and wouldn't a foot in the door, however lowly, give her the entree she needed? ?But your business is in central London,? she said haltingly. ?And this is much too far to commute.? Not that she felt she could stay here, not with Luke's ghost haunting the half-empty rooms, mocking her with the knowledge of what a sham their marriage had really been. ?So where do I stay?? ?Why not come and stay with me?? He shrugged his broad shoulders, although the beat of his heart queried the wisdom of his next words. ?I have a large apartment - there's plenty of room.? Her stomach tied itself up in knots. Once she would have given the world to hear him say those words. ?I could always ask one of my girlfriends to put me up -? But her voice trailed off. Most of her girlfriends were cozily cohabiting - could she really just land on one of their doorsteps like Cinderella? While Blake lived slapbang in the center of London, just a short distance from his offices. And didn't the thought of sharing with Blake make her heart beat faster with a delicious, illicit kind of pleasure? ?I'm not sure,? she said uncertainly. His cool smile mocked her. ?You think I'm offering you the other half of my bed? Is that what's worrying you?? Josephine's cheeks flamed as her mind cruelly conjured up a forbidding sensual memory. ?Of course I don't! And anyway, what about Kim?? she questioned, forcing herself to say the name without her voice shaking. ?Won't she object to another woman living in your flat?? ?What I do is not Kim's concern.? She stared at him. ?What do you mean?? ?Not anymore.? There wasn't a flicker of emotion to disturb the shuttered features. ?You see, Kim and I are no longer engaged.? Chapter Five Josephine stared at Blake in disbelief. ?You're not engaged to Kim anymore?? His mouth tightened. ?That's what I said.? ?But why?? Blake stared at her, thinking that she ought to give a little more attention to the mess of her own life before she started enquiring about his. ?I don't think that's any of your business, do you? Now why don't you pack a suitcase, and we'll drive to London?? Still dazed by the speed of what was happening to her, Josephine threw together the most suitable clothes she had, leaving Blake standing grim-faced in the sitting room.
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?I can easily let this place out,? she offered, once her packing was done. ?That way I'll be able to pay my way.? And at least that would give her some kind of financial independence, along with the salary he would be paying her. He nodded. ?Shall we go?? He took her case from her while she locked the door of the house and settled herself into the leather-lined luxury of his car. He shot her a brief look as he turned the ignition key, but forced his eyes back onto the road immediately, his hands tightening around the wheel. He had persuaded her to change out of that ridiculously provocative little evening dress, but jeans and a sweater were proving almost as distractive. How had he allowed himself to forget what a knockout of a woman she was - with her long, rangy limbs, which once she had wrapped so eagerly around his neck? Forget that, he told himself doggedly. Forget it. Josephine tried to doze on the journey to London, but nothing could stop the thoughts that whirled around her aching head. Luke had stolen her money and her friend and delivered the ultimate slap in the face. ?I can have him traced, you know,? said Blake carefully. She opened her eyes and turned to look at the hard, dark profile. ?How?? ?There are ways and means.? She supposed there were, if you were rich enough. ?I don't know.? Could she bear to see him? What would they have left to say to one another? Blake looked at the stiff, uptight set of her shoulders and wondered what had happened to the life and the fire that had once burned so brightly within her. Had Luke stamped that out completely? And why the hell had she allowed him to? ?Maybe you're hoping that he'll come to his senses and come running home to you?? he ground out. But he didn't wait for an answer, just drew up in front of a large and elegant apartment block. ?We're here,? he said shortly. But once inside the luxury of his home, reality began to hit home and Josephine realized just where she was, and with whom. Had she been out of her mind to agree to live in such close confines with a man who had once made love to her all night, and then walked away without a backward glance? She looked around her, longing for the escape of sleep. ?Where will I be sleeping?? His mouth hardened. As far away from him as possible. But the pert thrust of her breasts reminded him of something very elemental indeed, and he felt the hardening of desire. ?I'll show you.? He beckoned for her to follow him to the guest bedroom, where a huge bed seemed to dominate the entire room, and as he slung the suitcase down, he wondered what she wore in bed these days. Josephine looked around, anything to avoid the sudden hectic glittering in his eyes. ?This is lovely. Thank you.? ?Do you want to go to bed right now?? he questioned silkily.
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Chapter Six Caught in the cross fire of his eyes, Josephine stared across the bed at Blake as fantasy and reality spun her mind into confusion. ?B-bed?? she gulped, and felt her heart accelerate. Was she always this compliant? he wondered furiously. So at ease with her own sexuality that she would turn on for any man who made a move on her? Would she resist him if he pulled her into his arms and began to make love to her right now? ?Yes, bed,? he responded mockingly, as he turned to walk away. ?It's getting late, and I'm bushed. Good night, Josephine - I'll see you in the morning.? And he shut the door very quietly behind him. After a largely sleepless night, Josephine was up early the following morning, pulling on a demure sweater and skirt with an unexpected feeling of liberation, despite the situation she found herself in. She realized how heavy Luke's influence on her had been. He always insisted on vetting her clothes - and the ones he liked had been designed specifically to show off her reed-slim figure to advantage. Why had she let him dictate to her so? Because she had wanted to make their partnership work. Because she wanted a marriage just like the one her parents had had. Revealing clothes had seemed a small price to pay for a harmony, which had never quite happened. She walked into the sitting room and Blake stilled momentarily when he caught that first sight of her - a Josephine he had never seen before. She was wearing a knee-length skirt in soft, heathery colors of purple and green, with a green sweater, which brought out the color of her eyes. Her hair was scraped back in a chignon that sat neatly on the back of her long neck, but the most surprising thing of all was that she was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. She looked neat and sweet and - astonishingly enough - extremely efficient. ?Glasses?? he exclaimed. She was having a bit of difficulty concentrating - but then she had never seen Blake in an exquisitely cut three-piece suit before, a suit that seemed to make his long legs go on forever. "Men never make passes at girls who wear glasses" was her one irreverent thought before meeting the question in his eyes. ?You don't like them?? ?I didn't say that,? he responded steadily. ?I just didn't know you wore them, that's all.? ?I prefer them. Luke used to like me to wear contact lenses, so I did.? That figured. Glasses made her look almost prim. Aloof. And so at odds with the passionate woman he knew lay beneath. Blake swallowed. Though no less attractive for looking aloof. No way. ?There's coffee in the pot. And some muffins in the basket.? ?Th-thanks.?
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She forced herself to eat something, though it wasn't easy, not with Blake's long legs stretched out underneath the table, only a whisper away from hers. She wondered just what kind of reception she was going to get at his company, but she waited until they were in the car before she asked him. ?What exactly have you told your employees about me?? He shrugged. ?Just that you're an old friend, and that you're standing in for a while.? Friend? He didn't make her feel like his friend. ?Not that I was deserted and duped by my ex-husband?? He shook his head impatiently. ?Wouldn't that rather risk you sounding like a victim, Josephine? Or maybe that?s how you see yourself?? ?Maybe in the past I allowed myself to be,? she said slowly. ?But not anymore.? ?Good,? he murmured, but he was struggling to keep his eyes on the road. With her knees pressed decorously together, he noted that she still had the best pair of legs he had ever seen on a woman. ?You probably could walk back into modeling, you know. If you really wanted to,? he observed, thinking that maybe it was a crime to deny the world of that much beauty. There was a pause. ?Did you resent it when Luke asked you to stop?? Josephine shook her head. She had been so busy trying to see the wisdom in Luke's objection to her work taking her away from him that there hadn't been the time or the inclination for resentment. Then it had seemed a good idea - only now was she beginning to get an idea of how little she had asserted herself. And only now it occurred to her that Luke's demands may have been motivated more by jealousy of the fact that her career was eclipsing his. ?Not really,? she sighed, wondering how she could have been so blind. She didn't elaborate, which Blake thought was curiously loyal in view of what Luke had done, but which might also mean that she was still in love with him. Though if she was, then why describe him as her "ex"? ?So are you still in love with Luke, Josephine?? he drawled, as the car glided into the underground car-park. Chapter Seven It was a question that brought painful memories in its wake and Josephine stared into the steely gleam of Blake's eyes. Just what did she feel about Luke now? ?I don't know,? she said flatly. He wasn't prepared for the sharp slam of jealousy in his gut. ?Come on, Josephine, you can do better than that.? She shrugged. Maybe she could. ?You've already guessed that the marriage was a disaster - a fact confirmed that my husband sought to leave me so suddenly.? ?That doesn't answer my question. A woman can still love a man, even if he treats her badly.? He didn't appear to have noticed the irony that his behavior toward her had hardly been textbook perfect. With a sudden growing sense of resolution, she put all her energy into a smile. ?I hope I have a little more pride than that, Blake. I've never really been a fan of masochism. Now, hadn't we better get going?? He noticed how neatly she had avoided answering the question. ?Sure.? He watched the way she walked up the stairs in front of him and forced himself to stifle a groan. Demure the skirt might be, yes - but it did absolutely nothing to disguise the high, hard curve of her bottom.
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He followed her into Reception and willed the aching to subside. ?This is Sallie!? he announced, smiling at the glowingly pregnant blonde at the desk. ?Sallie, this is Josephine - who's going to be filling in while you're away. Will you show her the ropes?? ?Yes, Blake. Of course.? He gave a ghost of a smile. ?I'll see you later, Josie,? he said softly. Then he was gone, and Josephine found herself watching his retreating back almost wistfully. She was on her own now ? and it was up to her to show not just Blake, but everyone else in the company, that she wasn't just a pretty face, but could do the job properly. Sallie gestured to a chair. ?So you know anything about venture capitalists?? she asked. Josephine shook her head. ?Not a thing! But I'm ready to learn!? ?You'll need to be,? smiled Sallie. It was a long time since Josephine had put in a full day?s work, and she had never worked in an office before, so by the end of the afternoon she was absolutely dead on her feet. But by going-home time, she had learnt to use the complicated phone system and got to grips with the computer terminal. She was also beginning to get an inkling of just how vast Blake's empire really was...and how hard he worked...and the contrast between him and his cousin couldn't have been more marked. ?So you're a friend of Blake's, are you?? Sallie asked carefully over afternoon tea. ?Not a girlfriend, or anything?? Josephine shook her head. One bout of passionate sex 15 months ago certainly didn't put her in that category. ?No. Why?? ?Oh, nothing. He hasn't gone out with anyone since he split with Kim, you know,? Sallie confided. ?We all reckon he's still carrying a torch for her.? ?Oh.? Stupidly, Josephine felt her heart lurch with disappointment. So maybe Kim wasn't completely out of the picture. But at least Sallie's comment reinforced the fact that entertaining any false hopes about a man who despised her, was a complete waste of time. It was just extremely bad timing that after working nonstop, a shadow should fall over her desk just as she was repairing her lipstick. Josephine blinked as narrow hips swam into her line of vision and she looked up into a pair of ice-blue eyes. His gaze was cold and distinctly unfriendly - but then, why should it be otherwise? She was just someone he saw as a loser, someone he was reluctantly doing a favor for. And Josephine realized that she might never have his affection, but that she was damned well going to have to earn his respect. The question was how? Chapter Eight
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Weekends were going to be the worst, Blake decided. At least during the week, the days were filled by going to the office and evenings spent catching up on the million and one things he needed to do. But Josephine's first Saturday in his apartment had him feeling like a caged tiger with nowhere to go. He almost collided with her outside the bathroom and his blood pressure shot through the ceiling. No glasses or prissy little skirts and sweaters now, he thought furiously. Just long, pale limbs still glistening with tiny beads of water, and hair streaming in rivulets over her shoulders to cling erotically to her breasts. ?Can't you put something on?? he snarled. ?I was just on my way to do exactly that!? she retorted, but her cheeks went very hot. She hadn't missed the sudden darkening of his eyes, nor the fleeting look of hunger that had crossed his face. ?I-if you wouldn't mind letting me pass.? ?Delighted,? he said sarcastically, but even though he pressed himself against the wall, he could still feel the warmth emanating from a body clad only in a large bath sheet. ?Thank you,? she said, the close proximity making her only too aware of his raw masculinity, the rugged features, and the muscular shafts of his thighs, which rippled through his jeans. She shut the bedroom door behind her with a shaking hand, feeling the guilty sting of blood to her breasts and realizing that he wasn't immune to her - nor she to him. But deep down she could tell that he hated himself for wanting a woman he despised so much. He was drinking coffee in the sitting room when she finished dressing and he looked up as she walked in, wondering where she had acquired the knack of always making him want to drag her off to the nearest bed. He fought for something conventional to say, and fixed her with a bland smile. ?So how has your first week at work been?? She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Was a criticism about to come winging her way? ?I've really enjoyed it.? ?Not quite modeling, though, is it?? ?No. But it's rather refreshing to be judged on what you do, rather than how you look.? He frowned. He'd never thought of it that way. ?But the pay isn't as good.? ?Pay isn't everything,? she said, with a touch of defiant pride. And she would show him just how hard she had been working! ?Er, Blake?? ?Josephine?? How she wished he wouldn't always adopt that horrible sardonic tone! ?I...er...? She met his cool, quizzical stare. ?I have a proposition to put to you. Well, sort of.? His mind played out an aching sexual fantasy. He could think of a few propositions he wouldn't mind putting to her. ?Really? About what?? ?About work actually.? He gave her a look of barely concealed amusement. ?I can hardly wait,? he murmured. ?Do you remember Giuseppi Rossi?? she blurted out, seeing his hateful smile.
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He frowned as he flipped back through his memory bank. ?The young Italian horticultural chemist?? ?That's right. He's called by the office a few times now.? ?And you've had a chat with him, am I right?? His mouth twisted. He could imagine - the Italian looked as if he should be starring in the movies, not bent over a test tube in a laboratory. ?That's right.? She drew a deep breath. ?Blake, he says you won't see him -? ?Because there's no point,? he butted in impatiently, instantly recognizing where this conversation was headed. ?I have no intention of bankrolling his company, Josephine - so if that's what you're about to ask me, then you can save your breath.? ?But he's brilliant!? she argued, ignoring the dangerous light in his eyes. ?This organic weed killer he's working on sounds absolutely revolutionary!? ?So, a week into the job and already you're an expert?? ?Please don't patronize me, Blake!? ?I'm trying to tell you how it is, Josephine - and it's just not the kind of scheme I involve myself in!? ?So my opinion counts for nothing?? ?Why should it?? he questioned arrogantly. ?What about the fact that I came away from business school with a distinction?? He was impressed, but he didn't show it. ?That's theory, not practice!? ?Or that they told us that sometimes - just sometimes - we should go with our instincts, and my instinct is telling me that this is a brilliant idea.? ?I said no, Josephine,? he growled. ?My experience overrules your instinct. Believe me, I'm right.? It felt like being kicked in the teeth. Not just the way he had dismissed her idea out of hand, but his zero lack of faith in her judgment. ?Then I'll just have to prove you wrong, won't I, Blake?? she challenged hotly. Chapter Nine ?So are you going to carry on sulking at work, as well?? Blake murmured, leaning over the reception desk only to be punished by the mesmerizing vision of her breasts gloriously outlined in pure cashmere. Josephine looked up and frowned, and wished he would stop wearing that gorgeous aftershave, or stand farther away. Or something. ?I am not sulking.? ?Wrong. You've been off with me ever since you asked me about Giuseppi.? In fact, she had subjected him to a polite freeze whenever he spoke to her, and infuriatingly, it was having the effect of making him want her to talk to him. He wasn't used to women giving him the cold shoulder, he was used to them eating out of his hand. ?Are you still mad about that?? She gave him a chilly stare. Of course she was! ?It wasn't so much that you failed to look at his proposal in full, it was the fact that you obviously credit me with no intelligence or imagination at all.?
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The jury on the intelligence part was still out - an intelligent woman wouldn't have rushed headlong into marriage with a man like Luke, surely? But of her imagination, he was in no doubt - she had certainly been as imaginative as a man could want the night he'd made love to her. ?Let's just say I'm giving it some thought,? he said placatingly. And she was supposed to fall to her knees and thank him, was she? Her chilly look didn't waver. Josephine had been working her socks off at Devlin Associates - and while he might not have noticed it, the others certainly had. Why, just this morning, his second-in-command had told her that if her people skills could be marketed, then none of them need ever work again! ?And I'm supposed to be grateful for that, am I, Blake?? ?You could try,? he answered flippantly and thoughtfully fingered a bright petal of one of the flowers that stood on the desk. He hadn't really noticed flowers there before. ?Did you put these here?? he questioned suspiciously. She nodded. She had jettisoned the rather ugly and very dusty rubber plant. ?I thought it added something to the atmosphere of the room. Do you have a problem with that?? He shook his head. ?Just make sure that you use money from petty cash, that's all.? ?I did.? She smiled, steeling herself against the sheer potency of his appeal. ?Was there something else you wanted, Blake?? ?Have you eaten lunch yet?? ?No,? she answered repressively. ?Want to grab a sandwich with me?? It wasn't the most alluring invitation she had ever received, but her curiosity was aroused. He had never asked her to lunch before, so why start now? ?Why not?? she shrugged. His irritation at her noncommittal response was only increased when the proprietor of the Italian deli around the corner danced besotted attention on her request for beef on rye. He narrowed his eyes as he watched her accept the sandwich. Was she flirting with him? He had to say that she wasn't. Maybe it was just some unconscious message she sent out that had most red-blooded men fawning all over her. They sat down. ?This is very sweet of you, Blake,? she murmured. ?Not really. I've got some news for you, and I thought it best if I broke it away from the office.? There was something darkly ominous about the way he spoke, and the hand that held the sandwich froze halfway to her mouth. ?What news?? she whispered. ?Just that I've managed to trace your husband,? he said. ?I've found Luke.? Chapter Ten Josephine's hand shook uncontrollably. ?You've found Luke?? she whispered. ?Where??
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Blake was watching her face carefully. ?Your husband is on a beach in Bali.? He shrugged in distaste. ?He certainly decided to leave you in style!? Using her money. Josephine's ego, which she had been slowly building up all week like a convalescent patient, now collapsed like a day-old souffle. She let her gaze drop to her half-eaten sandwich, unwilling to meet Blake?s eyes, reluctant to see the mockery there - or his triumph at seeing her neatly slotted back into the role marked "victim." ?I can get him back to England, you know.? She did look up then. He looked so sure of himself. So confident. So strong. ?How?? ?I could threaten him with the police -? ?That would make him want to stay, surely?? ?Not if I told him you haven't yet reported him - but that you damned well will if he doesn't get back here and give you what he hasn't spent.? Josephine shook her head tiredly. Had Blake tracked him down deliberately to undermine her? To force her into contacting the police, as he thought she should? She had been doing okay before this latest bombshell - not great - but okay, and part of the reason for that was that Luke's absence had made her feel free. Unburdened by the nagging weight of a marriage on the rocks, a relationship in dire trouble. ?Do you want him back?? he demanded. ?No, of course I don't!? ?I don't mean back with you, Josephine,? he said, in a voice which for Blake could almost be described as gentle. ?I mean to sort the whole business out to some kind of satisfactory conclusion.? She tried to imagine what the reality would be like. Luke back in England. Seeing her living with Blake and putting two and two together to come up 105. She shuddered. ?Not yet,? she prevaricated. He stirred his coffee, allowing himself to ask the question that had been bothering him for a long time now. ?Why did you marry him?? he asked quietly. ?For the same reason that everyone gets married, I suppose. Because I thought I was in love!? He silently registered her use of the word "thought." ?But you weren't?? ?How could I have been? I barely knew him - it all happened so fast.? She had been hurting and vulnerable - her one-night stand with Blake having eaten into her already precarious self-esteem. People thought that models had everything most women wanted, but what no one seemed to realize was that beauty often went hand in hand with a crippling insecurity. Because people wanted you for all the wrong reasons. Luke certainly had - and maybe Blake had, too. ?He rushed you,? said Blake slowly. But Josephine shook her head violently, and a strand of bright-red hair came free of the constricting chignon. ?I must have wanted to be rushed,? she explained carefully. ?And he was fun. Everything with Luke was carefree. He made me laugh.? At a time when laughter had been in drastically short supply in her life.
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?Did you marry him on the rebound from me?? he asked quietly. Chapter Eleven Josephine had rarely experienced such a pure and blinding rage as she glared at Blake across the table of the coffee shop. ?Of all the arrogant and insufferable things I've ever heard, that really has to take first prize, Blake! Is your ego so overinflated that you think one night with you - one night,? she repeated in disbelief, ?would lead me to marry the first man who asked me?? ?So the fact that Luke was my cousin had nothing to do with it?? She opened her mouth to say something more on the subject of his ego, then shut it again. For wasn't there a tiny kernel of truth in his assumption? She had been swept off her feet by Luke, yes, a handsome actor who could have won an Oscar for his use of manipulative charm. But hadn't the fact that he had been related to a man she had spent her formative years pining over, made her feel a certain sense of triumph? And power? Particularly when Blake had come blazing round to her flat and urged her to postpone the marriage. She had decided that he was motivated by sour grapes, nothing more, and certainly not out of concern for her. He didn't want her - he had made that abundantly clear - but he was damned if anyone else should have her, either. Hadn't her indignation at his request that she put an end to it only fueled her determination to marry Luke? ?Maybe just a little,? she admitted. Blake expelled a long, low breath, realizing that one-night stands were never as straightforward as they appeared to be at the time. Which he guessed was why he'd only ever had one in his life. You felt good for a while, and then you just felt empty. He had hurt Josephine by the way he'd behaved toward her. He recognized that now. He sighed, wanting to put a smile back on her lips - and heaven only knew, there had been precious few of those in the past couple of weeks. ?Listen, Josie - let?s forget about Luke for a minute. What if I told you that I had another look at Giuseppi Rossi's scheme - and you were right - it did show potential? Maybe it's time for me to move in different directions.? His eyes gleamed. ?I think I'm going to back him.? Josephine stared at him, recognizing the sweetener for what it was, but knowing that she could not accept this attempt at an olive branch on Blake's terms alone. She leaned across the table toward him. ?I want to help back him, too. I want to put some money in!? He frowned. ?You don't need to -? ?But I want to!? she interrupted passionately - because it had been her hunch, her hunch - not Blake's. ?Why?? ?Because if it's the success that I think it's going to be, then I want part of it. It's my baby, Blake - not yours.? A smile played at the corners of his mouth. ?How much money?? ?Enough.? ?How much?? The sum she mentioned made him raise his eyebrows. ?But you haven't got that kind of money, Josephine. Not unless you're planning to sell the house?? ?No, I don't, but I can get it.?
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?How?? ?I have a necklace I can sell.? A necklace given to her by Luke in the first few heady weeks of their relationship. A garish piece, bought more as a symbol of how much he had been prepared to spend on her than because of any intrinsic beauty. She had never really liked it. ?You're willing to gamble that much on the basis of what?? he demanded incredulously. ?I told you. Instinct,? she answered slowly and fixed him with a curious look. ?Don't you ever act on instinct, Blake?? ?Not usually.? Something unsaid hovered in the air between them. ?Ever?? she persisted. There was a pause. ?Just the once.? ?When was that?? But even as she asked the question, she knew what the answer was going to be. His mouth flattened. ?The night I slept with you, sweetheart.? Chapter Twelve Josephine forced herself to remain impassive. ?I thought you'd forgotten all about that night,? she said quietly. ?Forgotten it?? Blake echoed, in disbelief, because since she'd moved in he'd been remembering it about every two seconds. ?Why on earth should you think that?? ?Because you never mention it.? ?Well, neither do you,? he accused softly. She didn't look away. ?No.? ?And anyway - it isn't the easiest subject to bring up, is it?? He adopted a mocking voice. ?Josephine, do you remember the night when we tumbled uninhibitedly into bed together?? She pushed a piece of bread around the plate. ?But that's exactly what happened,? she said baldly. ?And you badly regretted it, didn't you?? She looked up. ?Not as much as you obviously did!? His eyes narrowed. ?Meaning?? ?You couldn't wait to get away the next morning, could you?? How honest to be? Totally, he decided. He owed her that, no matter how hurtful his words might be. She had endured enough subterfuge with Luke. ?I thought that we both understood the situation for what it was,? he said softly.
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Josephine blinked uncomprehendingly. ?What was to understand?? ?That sometimes these things happen. A man and woman end up in bed together, even though they hadn't planned for it to happen.? ?And it doesn't mean anything - is that what you're saying?? This was proving even harder than he had anticipated and the look of confusion, which was blazing from her eyes, only added to his discomfiture. If he had ever wondered whether there had been other one-night stands in Josephine's life, then she had silently and implicitly answered it by the look on her face. ?I'm saying that it provided a great deal of pleasure at the time.? A pulse beat insistently at his temple as he remembered just how pleasurable. ?But sometimes that's as far as it goes.? Josephine swallowed. How eloquently he had put it, but no less wounding for that. ?And you ran straight back to your relationship with Kim, didn't you?? He shook his head. ?I didn't go straight from your bed to Kim's, if that's what you're implying. I wasn't with Kim at the time -? ?For which I suppose I must be grateful.? ?But, yes,? he sighed, and stared into her hurt and angry face, ?I did get back with her. We went back a long way and I felt I owed it to both of us to give it one last shot. It wasn't the first time we'd split up. That's the way our relationship was at the time.? And now, she wondered, but pride would not let her ask him that. Just because the girls at work thought he had never gotten over Kim didn't mean anything, did it? There had certainly been no sign of her since Josephine had moved in with him. And Blake himself had told her that the engagement was broken. As they stood up to leave, she decided that it had been a painful and difficult talk, but maybe it had cleared the air between them. And their one night of hot sex could now be consigned to history. Chapter Thirteen Blake slammed into the flat at just gone eight, his face dark as thunder, to find Josephine grilling chicken, her sensible skirt stretched tight over the cups of her buttocks as she bent to take two plates out of the oven. ?Everything okay?? she asked. Blake sucked in a breath of frustration. She had taken to cooking dinner some nights, so that he had the torture of watching her move around his kitchen. An exquisite torture he decided, just as she smoothed her hands down over her apron, emphasizing the washboard-flat stomach. He threw his briefcase onto a chair and averted his eyes. ?Yeah, sure,? he agreed sardonically. ?Perfect as pie! I spoke to your friend Giuseppi this afternoon, who now seems to think he's died and gone to heaven!? ?You told him the good news? That you were going to back him?? Good for whom, he hazarded, wondering whether she had hopes of her own for the sexy young Italian. ?Yeah, I told him.? He sounded as though he had had second thoughts. ?You don't seem very happy about it,? she ventured.
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More than one kind of frustration began to simmer into a boil. ?What do you expect, Josephine?? he demanded. ?I tell him one thing, and on the strength of what a cub receptionist says - I go back on everything I said and agree to back him! What do you think that says to him about my professional judgment? My reputation?? ?Your pride?? she teased. His pride? Maybe she was right. And maybe the absence of pride might give him the freedom to ask her what had been bothering him. ?Like a drink?? he questioned. Something in the darkening of his eyes was making her heart beat a little faster, and she switched the grill off with a shaking hand. ?Sure.? He handed her a glass of wine and watched her while she drank some. ?You never did answer my question,? he said slowly. She guessed from the deepening of his voice that this was nothing to do with work. ?What question was that?? ?About whether you regretted what we did that night?? ?Didn't I?? ?You know you didn't.? ?For what it's worth - then, no, I didn't regret it - not really. Just the way it fizzled out, I guess.? ?But you recovered pretty quickly - fast enough to marry Luke within three months of meeting him.? ?And you went back to Kim,? she pointed out. ?You had a pretty speedy recovery yourself.? He nodded, and he felt the stir of longing deep in his groin. ?But things have changed now, haven't they?? He put his glass down. She saw the way his eyes had darkened and something deep inside her began to melt. ?Wh-what?? she whispered, as he walked across the kitchen to face her. ?You're no longer with Luke.? He stared down at her. ?And...? ?A-and?? Her lips trembled, and he traced their shivering outline with the tip of his finger. ?I'm no longer with Kim. Which makes us free agents, doesn't it?? He moved his finger to smooth the curve of her jaw, and from there to her neck, and then farther still to the swell of her tiny breast, and shaking uncontrollably, she let him. ?And free agents can do what the hell they please, don't you think?? ?Blake,? she swallowed, because his face was ablaze with hunger. ?And this will please both of us, sweetheart,? he murmured huskily, his fingers beginning to undo the buttons of her blouse.
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Chapter Fourteen ?Blake!? Josephine gasped, as he impatiently freed the last button and the air washed over her breasts. He seemed to have been waiting for this moment all his life. ?What?? he growled, and bent his dark head, suckling the nipple through the lace of her brassiere and her head jerked back, her eyes closing with helpless pleasure as he pushed one hard thigh between the unprotesting softness of hers. She gripped his shoulders as the fierce promise of his body began to send sensual messages singing through her blood. ?Don't you like what I'm doing?? he murmured. He brazenly asked this particular question just as he was impatiently pulling the zip of her skirt down, so that moments later it had pooled in a whisper at her feet. ?Do you?? he demanded. Since this question was accompanied by a provocative finger wriggling all the way up her thigh, she could do little other than make a shuddering little sigh, which became a moan when he found what he had clearly been seeking. He felt the jerk of desire - sweet and sharp and potent - as he delved beneath her lace panties to find her honey sweet and turned on, and he sucked in a disbelieving breath. This was how he remembered her - so instantaneously responsive to everything he did to her. ?Do you know what I want to do to you?? he whispered huskily. She shook her head, and raised her mouth to nip her teeth at the lobe of his ear, hearing his half-stifled murmur of delight. ?Everything,? he breathed. ?I want to do everything to you, Josephine, and then a little bit more.? She knew before he began to tug at her panties that he wasn't planning on taking her to the bedroom. Through half-shielded eyes she sneaked a look downward, where his desire could have been daunting if she hadn't wanted him so much. She doubted whether he would even make it to the bedroom, not in that kind of aroused state. She flicked open the belt of his trousers and unzipped him and she heard his sigh of pleasure as he sprang free into the palm of her hand. ?Oh, sweetheart,? he ground out unsteadily as he raised his head to look down at her, his blue eyes dazed. ?Sweetheart.? His mouth grazed hers, explored it and licked it until she was on fire with him, and when he impatiently shoved aside the supper plates and bent her over the kitchen counter, she felt a wild and dizzyingly sensation of elation. God, but she made him crazy! He kicked away his trousers and stared down at her, silhouetted against the countertop. Her hair had worked its way free, and was wild and messy - tumbling over the lace-covered strain of her breasts, while her cheeks were pink and her green eyes glittering. He felt her syrupy moistness as he pushed against her, and then he thrust into her with an exultant kind of groan. Josephine was unprepared for the sensation of completeness, of this being so right, but then, if her thoughts went out of control so did her body, because almost immediately the fiercest, most elemental orgasm had her shaking in his arms just before she heard his own soft, disbelieving sigh.
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So the first time had not been an exaggeration. It was always this good with this man. She lifted her lips to his ear. ?Thank you,? she whispered softly He was about to ask her what she was thanking him for when the telephone began to ring, and in her disorientated and sleepy state of fulfillment, Josephine automatically reached out her hand to pick it up. Blake groaned. ?You should have ignored it,? he whispered, but she smiled. ?Hello?? she yawned, and then stilled as she heard the voice at the other end, a cold, clammy sweat breaking out on her forehead. She handed him the receiver. ?It's for you,? she said, in a voice that was a hairsbreadth away from shaking. ?It's Kim.? Chapter Fifteen Blake took the receiver and tried to plant a kiss on Josephine's lips along the way, but she was busy wriggling out from underneath him, her face like thunder and her naked breasts brushing tantalizingly against his chest. He sighed. ?Kim? Hi!? He listened for a moment. ?Well, it's not exactly the best time -? Kim was speaking rapidly now and he watched helplessly as Josephine flounced across the kitchen, her bare bottom wiggling. He heard her open the bathroom door and slam it shut with an almighty bang. He listened to what Kim was saying. ?Yeah, okay. I'll see you there,? he said. ?But it'll have to be quick.? He replaced the phone, pulled on his jeans, and then went and hammered on the bathroom door. ?Josephine!? ?Go to hell!? she yelled. ?I need to talk to you!? ?Go and talk to Kim instead, why don't you?? And then she turned the shower full on to drown out the sound of his voice and the sound of her tears. *** She stood beneath the hot jets for a long time so that her skin was pink and wrinkled by the time she emerged, and, though she stood and listened for several minutes - there was no sound from the rest of the apartment. He had gone. Gone? Where? To Kim? Like an automaton, she dressed in jeans and a sweater, but she did not bother drying her hair - she couldn't care less what it looked like - and her hands were shaking too much to be of any use. It hurt, she realized. It hurt like crazy to think that Blake was still so close to Kim that he would rush straight off at her bidding, especially at a time like that. And she realized something else, too.
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That somewhere along the way she had fallen in love with her boss. So where did that leave her? Vulnerable and open to all kinds of heartache if all he wanted was a willing bed-partner. Trying to dull some of the pain, she finished her glass of wine and didn't hear the front door close, didn't register anything at all until she saw Blake standing there in the kitchen, his face not guilty, but full of a quiet suppressed rage. ?I'm surprised you're still here,? he said quietly. She lifted her chin, her eyes glittering but defiant. ?I don't have a choice, do I?? she returned. ?Where else would I go at this time of night?? He gave a bitter smile as he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it, before turning to face her, his features set. ?And that's the only reason you stayed, is it, Josephine? A kind of emotional prisoner?? ?A physical prisoner,? she corrected icily. ?There was precious little emotion involved in what just happened.? ?So, history has repeated itself,? he mused. ?There was precious little emotion involved the last time, if my memory serves me well.? She turned her face away, afraid that he would see the sudden leap of tears. No emotion? Maybe not for him, but for her, it had been overwhelming. The stupid and indiscriminate kind of emotion that made you love a man who would never love you back. ?How's Kim?? she asked flippantly. ?Has she forgiven you your infidelity this time? Or has she grown a little tired of your wayward libido?? Blake glared at Josephine, his breath coming quick and fast. ?Kim rang me up to tell me that she's pregnant!? Chapter Sixteen There was a long, awful pause and Josephine very nearly passed out. ?Oh, my God,? she moaned. Blake understood immediately and stared at her, his eyes glittering furiously. ?It isn't my baby!? he roared. ?It isn't?? ?Of course it isn't! She's living with a lawyer! She has been for months! She rang me on her mobile to say she was just passing in a taxi, and I went downstairs to congratulate her. And do you really think that I would have made love to you -? ?Oh, please don't dress it up!? she snapped. ?Having the minimum amount of clothes removed and being bent over the kitchen counter is hardly what I would call making love!? Arrogantly, he raised his eyebrows. ?I didn't hear you objecting at the time.? Her cheeks went pink. ?That was because...because...? ?Because what, Josephine?? he prompted softly. Because she had been in the throes of a physical response so intense that it had threatened to rock the foundations of her world. But hadn't it always been like that with him?
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?I was as carried away as you were at the time!? It wasn't any kind of loving declaration, but he nodded, badly needing to control his indignation and his fury, because if he wasn't careful then things would get said that they would regret. Or more important, things wouldn't get said - things that maybe he should have said a long time ago. ?Do you really think I would go straight from your arms and into Kim's?? he asked again. She bit her lip. ?How should I know? You never talk about her, do you? And you bit my head off when I asked. But the girls at work mention her.? ?And what do they say?? ?Just that you never got over her - and that you've never been out with anyone since you split up.? He sucked in a breath. ?Well, one part of the equation, at least - is true.? He met the wary question in her eyes. ?I haven't been out with anyone since Kim.? The other fact penetrated her befuddled brain. ?Does that mean you are over her?? ?Of course I'm over her!? he exploded. ?I'm not the kind of man who can make out with two women at the same time - it's not in my nature!? Her voice was low. ?What about the night of the party?? He shook his head. ?I told you, my relationship with Kim was off at the time. That's how it was - on and off sometimes for great chunks of time.? He could see from the question in her eyes that she wanted - maybe needed some kind of explanation. ?She was the kind of woman I thought would make a good wife -? ?What kind of woman is that?? she asked, thinking how coldly dispassionate he sounded. ?Someone steady, logical, calm -? ?The ?right type??? she put in sarcastically. ?As opposed to the type of woman who would leap into bed with you without even being asked out for dinner first?? ?Don't put yourself down, Josephine.? ?Why? Are you going to do that for me?? ?And stop being so bloody defensive and listen to me for once!? he stormed, and then controlled his breathing with an effort. ?Kim thought the same about me - intellectually, she could imagine us settling down together - two people with a lot in common who would make good companions.? ?So what happened to change your mind?? He shrugged. ?Relationships aren't like a mathematical problem - you can't punch in all the right numbers and come up with the perfect partner. I went back to Kim soon after that night with you, but I discovered -? He wondered whether what had happened between him and Josephine had made him view the world differently. ?I discovered that there was no real spark between the two of us, although there was a good deal of respect and affection. And the spark is what keeps a relationship alive.? Josephine stared at him, realizing that things really were over between him and Kim, but realizing something else, too.
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?Isn't this going to change things at work?? He frowned. ?What things?? ?Do you think we'll still be able to work together now that we're having sex?? Chapter Seventeen ?Have you worked out the answer to your question yet, sweetheart?? Blake drawled. Josephine blinked. He had just rung through to reception saying that he needed to see her urgently, and here she was, in the dauntingly large room of his penthouse office. ?What question?? ?About whether we'd be able to carry on working together now that we're having sex.? ?What a horrible way to put it!? she said crossly. ?It was your choice of words, Josephine,? he pointed out and then he gave a slow smile. ?I think it's working out just fine, don't you?? ?Yes,? she said cautiously. But only by making the huge effort of separating the cool Blake at the office with the hot and passionate Blake at home. Her mouth dried. And if she wasn't careful, she was going to break her cardinal rule of not linking the two men. ?Is that what you called me in here to say?? He rose to his feet, thinking how beautiful she looked when she was trying to be angry with him. ?No, I called you in here to ask two things. The first is why you've started sending the press releases round in an email to everyone in the company.? ?Because it's instant and because it gives everyone a buzz. And it makes everyone feel involved!? ?It's not how we usually work it, Josephine.? She heard the faint note of authority in his voice and decided to ignore it. She stared him out. ?So? If we always did things in exactly the same way, we'd never progress, would we, Blake?? ?Are you arguing with me?? ?No, I'm trying to make you see sense!? ?Like you did with Giuseppi, you mean?? ?Exactly,? she said smugly. ?Except that it's too early to say if his scheme will take off.? ?I'm confident,? she answered. ?I know you are.? He walked across the office and stared down at her. What a difference a month could make - because the Josephine who sat so glowingly before him was a million miles away from the deflated woman he had brought back to London with him. ?Everyone here thinks you're pretty wonderful!? ?And what do you think?? she flashed back. His voice was slightly unsteady. ?I think you're pretty wonderful myself.?
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?Why, thank you, Blake,? she said demurely, then hastily stood up. Praise was all very well and good, but there was something in the darkening of Blake's eyes that was making her feel distinctly unprofessional, and she had vowed never to be that. ?What was the second thing you asked me in here for?? He raised her hand to his lips. ?A kiss.? She shivered and tried to take her hand away, but he had it locked fast in his. ?Blake - we mustn't.? ?Mustn?t what?? he murmured, as he bent his head to nuzzle his mouth against the longline of her neck. ?You know!? She tried to wriggle out of his arms, but unfortunately just at the same moment he pulled her against him, so that the wriggle became a sinuous writhe against the hard length of his body. ?Mmm. I know everything,? he teased, and bent his head to kiss her. ?Blake, this is going to get out of hand,? she protested. ?I intend it to,? he said, sliding his hand underneath her skirt. ?I won't be able to resist unless you stop it,? she begged. ?Then don't.? There was a moment when she pretended to struggle, but it was as fainthearted as could be, because she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He made love to her very swiftly and very beautifully on the floor of his office. ?Lock the door!? she gasped, just as he began to unzip his trousers. ?I already did!? he gasped back. ?Oh, my,? sighed Josephine afterward, languidly stretching her arms above her head. ?That was just heaven!? Blake looked at her where she lay on his office floor, her eyes closed, her clothes awry, an expression of satiated bliss on her face, and he realized that he needed some kind of closure with her past. Hell, they both did. ?Fix your clothes, Josephine,? he said suddenly. ?We're going out.? Josephine opened her eyes. ?Out where?? ?To see Luke. He's back in London.? Chapter Eighteen The car crawled along the busy London streets, and Josephine tried to take in the facts. Luke was back. Here in London! ?How long has he been back??
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?A couple of weeks. I guess he thought that he could lie low and not be discovered, but I found out as soon as he had set foot in Britain.? ?But you didn't bother telling me?? Blake shot her a look. ?You claimed not to be particularly interested. And she hadn't been. That much was true. But then her heart and her mind and her body had been full of the man beside her. ?Besides,? he gave a tight smile. ?You seem to have blossomed pretty well without him. You've become some woman, Josephine.? It was probably the sweetest thing he had ever said to her. ?Why, th-thank you,? she responded shakily. The door to Luke's apartment was opened and Josephine was shocked by the sight of her estranged husband, wearing just a pair of trousers. He had gained weight and his face was tanned but puffy, with a faint sheen of sweat, his eyes dark-rimmed. In his hand he held a glass half-full of whiskey, and his eyes narrowed with sly perception as he stared from one to the other. ?Well, well, well,? he sneered. ?So my powerful cousin finally got what he always wanted, did he? Hope she's a bit more responsive in your bed, mate, than she was in mine.? Resisting the urge to smack him in the face, Blake looked across at Josephine. Was that why she had thanked him after her orgasm, she wondered? He gave her a tender smile. ?We've no complaints in that department, have we, sweetheart?? Luke scowled. ?What do you want?? ?Can we come inside?? asked Blake quite calmly. ?If you want,? came the ungracious reply. Inside, the flat was a shambles and the first thing that Josephine saw was a discarded pair of women's highheeled shoes and a crumpled pair of panties. Blake stood watching her frozen expression, then turned to Luke. ?So you're still with Sadie, are you?? ?God, no! I traded her in for a newer model, actually.? Luke gave a glassy grin. ?So what can I do for you, Josephine?? The unplanned words came tumbling out all by themselves. ?I'd - I'd like a divorce please, Luke - just as soon as possible.? He stilled, and a calculating look came into his eyes. ?Why, so you can get it together with Mr. Megabucks?? He stared insultingly at her neat, navy suit. ?He'll never marry you, you know, Josephine however much you try to turn yourself into the woman he wants you to be, with the frumpy clothes and the glasses!? ?On the contrary,? interjected Blake smoothly. ?I love Josephine very much whatever she's wearing - or not wearing - and I intend to marry her as soon as possible - if she'll have me. Oh, and one more thing, Luke.?
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Luke stilled, as if something in Blake's tone was more than a little threatening. ?What?? ?I imagine that even your profligate habits haven't been able to blow all the money that you stole from Josephine -? ?For richer or for poorer,? mocked Luke. ?Those are the words of the wedding vows -? ?Shut up,? ground out Blake. ?I'm telling you that if the remainder of the money isn't in her bank account by the end of the week, then you will be hit with the full force of the law. And I want everything that you have spent paid back. In full. Understood?? Luke lasted the blistering blue stare for only about 10 seconds, and then his eyes dropped to his bare feet. ?Yeah,? he agreed sulkily. Her heart was pounding so hard that Josephine could barely breath and she clutched at Blake's hand. ?Ccome on. L-let?s j-just get out of here,? she stumbled. They made it back to the car and she sat there with tears streaming down her cheeks. ?Why are you crying, sweetheart?? he asked gently. ?Did it upset you to see him looking such a mess?? She shook her head. ?Wh-what did you have to say that for?? she sobbed. ?Which bit in particular?? he asked, smiling. ?The love and flowers bit! To hurry the divorce along? Or to salvage what's left of my pride?? ?Neither. Because it's true. It's always been true - only I was too blind and too stubborn to admit it to myself before. You're the spark I've been missing - the spark that I need. You make me feel alive, sweetheart more alive than I thought it was possible to feel.? She stared at him, knowing deep down that he would not say these things if they were not true. ?So will you marry me?? he murmured silkily. There was a long pause before she fixed him with an answering stare, her green eyes huge in her face. ?No, Blake,? she whispered. ?I can't.? Chapter Nineteen Blake's eyes narrowed in disbelief. ?Say that again.? ?I can't marry you.? There was a pause. ?Would you mind telling me why? It isn't because you don't love me, I know that.? It was an arrogant declaration, but at least it was honest. ?You're so confident that I love you?? Josephine questioned quietly. He wondered if she was blind to the way that she looked at him sometimes when she thought she wasn't being observed. Like the sun had suddenly come out. ?But you do, don't you?? What point was there in denying it anymore?
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?Yes. Very much.? So why won't you marry me?? Josephine let out a long, low sigh. ?Because it would be too easy.? ?Marriage is supposed to be easy,? he said gently. ?Not difficult.? ?Yes, but don't you see, Blake - I've already had one failed marriage. I don't want to rush into another - like a woman crossing a stream and leaping from one emotional rock to the next. This has all been like a roller coaster -? ?What has?? ?The closure with Luke. The relief. The closeness with you - but what if it's all an illusion? What if six months down the line we find it's all played out?? He shook his head. ?It won't be.? ?But how can you know that?? she demanded, her voice rising, knowing that she was heaping pain on herself by not giving in to what she wanted more than anything in the world, but knowing, deep down, that she needed the courage to see it through. ?You thought that you wanted to marry Kim - you were with her for years, and yet in the end you acknowledged that it wasn't right.? ?Because I feel differently about you than the way I felt about Kim,? he said simply. ?With Kim I just felt that I was playing a part - a part I wanted to play, it's true. But none of it felt real, the way it does with you. You're everything I thought I didn't want - you're stubborn and fiery. You make me want to make love to you in the most unsuitable of places.? She blushed, remembering them working late last night, and the protracted pleasure of the ride in the lift. ?You make me respond,? he continued passionately. ?And I don't just mean sexually, I mean emotionally, too. You engage me at a level I didn't think I had in me. I broke every rule in the book the night I took you home from that party. Don't you understand, Josephine, that we belong together - in a way that Kim and I never did.? ?Oh, darling,? she whispered. ?I must have been mad not to have admitted it to myself sooner. I risked losing you - hell, I did lose you! I'm just thanking God that your marriage failed and that I had the chance to try again.? It was hard to reconcile Blake - her passionate but contained Blake - coming out with such unequivocal declarations of need and love. She wanted to get on the mobile phone and to demand that Luke give her the quickest divorce in history so that she could become Mrs. Josephine Devlin at the first opportunity. But she owed it to him to apply the brakes just a little. Hell, she owed it to herself. She reached for his hand and kissed the tip of each finger in turn, and she thought that she could read a certain sense of victory in the ice-blue eyes. But his words surprised her even more than his wry smile. ?You aren't going to give in on this, are you, sweetheart?? ?How can you tell??
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?I just can.? Like he seemed to be able to tell most things about her, and his knowledge of her grew day by day. He sighed, knowing that she was right and respecting her for it, even as it irritated him that she would not bend to his will. But wasn't that one of the reasons why he loved her? ?Okay.? He nodded his dark head. ?I'll wait. Just don't make me wait too long, Josephine,? he growled. Chapter Twenty Epilogue ?So how does it feel to be a millionaire, sweetheart?? Blake asked softly. Josephine smiled. ?Huh! You tell me - you should know!? He laughed. Giuseppi's revolutionary organic weed killer had been launched to ecstatic worldwide response and the shares had been floated on the stock market last week, leaving him with his biggest ever success on his hands. No. Not his. ?You know, it's your success, sweetheart. All yours.? He leaned over to plant a kiss on her lips. ?If it hadn't been for your stubbornness and determination - I would never have backed him. I should have listened to you from the outset.? ?But why should you have done?? she asked him. ?You were the expert -? ?Supposedly,? he interjected dryly. ?It was just an instinctive feeling that it was all going to come good.? As they had done together. More than good. Blake had once said that Giuseppi had looked as though he had died and gone to heaven - well, he now had a pretty good idea of how he must have felt! ?And yet you ruthlessly refused to be instinctive about marrying me,? he mused. ?When I knew you wanted to. We keep acting out-of-character around each other, don't we, Josie?? She considered this. ?Or maybe it's just that we bring out the best in each other,? she said seriously. ?Exploring the sides of ourselves that we'd never really looked at before.? He smiled. ?Happy?? ?Ecstatic would be an understatement!? ?That's a ?yes,? is it?? he teased. They were sitting outside on Blake's roof garden in the glorious, golden summer sunshine, just contemplating whether to eat in or go out for supper. And contemplating other things, as well. Josephine's divorce had come through and Luke had paid back most of the money. She was now financially more than solvent and well respected within the company - more important, she now respected herself. She
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sighed. It didn't get much better than this. The board had just agreed to promote her, and she was living with the man she loved. ?It's been well over a year since I first moved in here with you,? she observed, a note of surprise in her voice. ?Hard to believe, isn't it?? In some ways, yes - in others, not at all. Time was immeasurable when you were happy, Blake realized, and he was happier than he had imagined it possible to be. He kissed her again, just for the hell of it. ?You know, maybe you were right, sweetheart, maybe we don't need a wedding ring to be committed to one another.? Josephine frowned. ?I don't remember saying that.? ?Not in so many words, perhaps.? He shrugged. ?But marriage to Luke scared you off, I know that, and the last thing I want is for you to enter into an institution that makes you uneasy. I'm not going anywhere, honey - and we don't need a wedding to prove it.? The frown grew deeper. ?Are you saying that you no longer want to marry me?? With great difficulty, he bit back a smile. ?That's not what I'm saying at all,? he corrected smoothly. ?Just I'm perfectly happy with the status quo. Aren't you?? Suddenly, no she was not! ?I do want to get married, actually,? she said sulkily, but the soft blaze from his eyes teased a smile out of her. ?I've been waiting for you to ask me again! He shook his head and a mischievous light glinted in the blue eyes. ?Oh, no - we've done it that way round and you said no. So in the spirit of our wonderful and very equal relationship, I really think you ought to ask me, Josephine.? ?I'm not getting down on one knee, if that's what you think!? ?Why not sit on my knee instead?? he suggested gravely. She did as he asked, perched herself comfortably and erotically over one hard, muscular thigh and looked deep into his eyes. ?Will you marry me, Blake?? ?I'll have to think about it.? ?For how long?? she cried, trying to keep the alarm from her voice He enjoyed the moment. ?Oh, for about - say - five seconds.? He grinned. ?Of course I'll marry you, Josephine - though I thought you'd never ask, you stubborn woman!? He kissed her for a very long time and as she kissed him back her last rational thought was that Blake knew exactly how to handle her. In more ways than one!
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Hot Flash by Donna Kauffman Shea Flanagan's career as a photographer is finally taking off. She's been hired to take pictures of local heroes for a calendar that will be given out to school children. And she knows the perfect model ? her brother's best friend is a sexy firefighter, and the man she'd like to photograph in a much more intimate situation. Ryan makes a reluctant role model ? not only is he modest, but being in front of Shea's camera makes him feel exposed, even when dressed in his firefighting gear. But he must set aside the feelings he has for Shea ? or risk losing the love and respect of her overprotective family, a family he looks on almost as his own. Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter One You want me to what?" Ryan Connolly was going to kill Casey Flanagan for planting this lame idea in his sister's oh-so-gorgeous head. He waved a finger in Shea Flanagan's face. "Find yourself another model." Shea merely smiled that implacable Irish smile that both Flanagans employed to great advantage. Only Ryan had no problem ignoring Casey and his troublemaker grin. Shea, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. It had been a hell of a lot easier to think of her as his best friend's little sister when he and Casey were both obnoxious 10-year-olds whose favorite pastime was hating "cootie-covered" girls. At 27, Ryan no longer hated girls. And he didn't imagine 25-year-old Shea covered in much of anything. Which was precisely why he wasn't going to let her get anywhere near him. "Come on, Ryan," Shea wheedled. "This is your chance to do something for the community." Ryan narrowed his gaze. "Silly me. Here I'd been thinking that running in and out of burning buildings, saving people, was doing something for the community." Shea laughed, not put off by his intensity. In fact, nothing he did intimidated her. She was like an exuberant puppy, bouncing along behind him, secure in the knowledge that those around her loved her no matter what they said or how they acted. It was a family thing, he supposed. At least a Flanagan family thing. And hadn't they been the ones to show him what family was? He sighed. It had been almost 20 years, and he hadn't been all that gracious about it at the time. But the Flanagans taking him in, a homeless eight-year-old, had literally saved his life. Although they'd hate it if they knew how obligated he felt to them, the fact was, he did. And always would. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it." Shea's blue eyes sparkled as she jumped up. He braced himself. Not for the force of her body colliding with his. He outweighed her by a good 75 pounds. No, he braced himself for an entirely different type of force. The kind a female body could wield over a man with merely the pressure of all those soft curves pressing up against him. Even bracing for it, he wasn't prepared for the onslaught of what Shea's soft places did to his much harder ones. Some of which were getting harder all the time. If she noticed the strain tightening the skin around his mouth as he fought to get himself under control, she didn't show it. She was too busy gushing. "I promise you won't regret it. This is such a great project for the kids. In times like this, they need all the role models they can get." Ryan laughed. "Yeah, right. I'm not any kind of model. Role or otherwise. Come on, Shea," he added, cutting her off before she could argue. "If it weren't for your family, I'd probably have spent my formative years in some juvie facility. Just because they cleaned me up and found me a foster home, doesn't mean I'm some kind of model that kids should look up to. If anyone's a role model, it's your folks, or Bill and Dina for letting your dad talk them into taking on one more foster kid. Listen, maybe this isn't such a ?" Shea shook her head, making those black curls of hers dance. "I think that's exactly what makes you perfect for this calendar. Sure, the Harrisons rode your butt. God knows you didn't make things easy on them." Only
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her easy laugh kept his skin from coloring in remembered shame. "But you're the one who made something of yourself. You should be proud of that. I know they would be. When these kids hear your story, about ?" "Whoa, whoa, wait just a minute. I thought you said I just had to pose for a few pictures ? in full gear," he pointedly reminded her, just in case she was having the same problems imagining him naked that he did with her. He should be so lucky. No, strike that. If he thought Shea had even remotely similar fantasies...well, he didn't think he'd survive it. And if Casey found out, he was certain he wouldn't. Casey would lay down his life for Ryan, and vice versa, but where Shea was concerned, her brother gave new meaning to the term "overprotective." "You weren't listening," Shea said. "Yes, it's a couple of shots of you with your gear and the trucks. I was thinking we could get Barney in some of them, too." She smiled down at Engine 41's mascot, a mongrel that couldn't look less like a Dalmatian, who was currently curled up at her feet. She looked back at Ryan, her expression all affectionate humor and warmth, and he swore his heart stumbled in his chest. Christ, she'd been here less than 10 minutes and he was already losing what little control he had. This was precisely why he avoided her whenever possible. He needed all the control he could muster just to survive the weekly dinners at the Flanagan house. Now he was literally signing on to have her around. "But you also have to do a little interview." She raised her hand, cutting him off this time. "Just a brief question and answer thing, so the kids can learn why you decided to become a firefighter. You know, who influenced you as a kid, that kind of thing. Painless, I promise," she assured him with a beaming smile. Painless. If she only knew how uncomfortable the fit of his jeans was at the moment. He silently begged the station buzzer to go off. A three alarm fire would be more than welcome at the moment. "When can we get this over with?" "Gee," she said dryly, "your enthusiasm is overwhelming." She leaned forward, which had the unfortunate effect ? one Ryan knew she was oblivious to ? of pushing her small, but nicely rounded breasts full up against the silky T-shirt she wore. "But since you're ready and willing ?" Ryan silently groaned. "? why not right now?" she suggested brightly, clueless to the torture she was putting him through. "I've got my equipment out in my car." She looked out the narrow truck bay windows and squinted. "Sun's a little low, but I'm sure we can manage. Will your captain mind if we move one of the trucks outside?" She was already up and circling the nearest engine. "This one would work." She glanced at him. "Why don't you go suit up and I'll go in and talk to Captain Morelli." She grinned. "I'm sure we can work something out." She dipped her chin and gave him a look. "I think he thinks I'm hot." Then she laughed. "Sweet old guy. I'm young enough to be his granddaughter!" And close enough to me to be a sister. Fat lot of good that was doing to stifle his wayward hormones. He was pretty sure Morelli would understand perfectly. She brushed off her jeans, then adjusted the fit of her bra. Right there. In front of him. Like he was Casey...or...or her mother, or something equally harmless. Jesus. She shot him a grin. "Well, I suppose age makes no difference when it's about the opposite sex. So I might as well use it to my advantage, right?" Ryan couldn't answer. He was too busy clawing his libido out of his throat. He watched her walk into Morelli's office, thinking his sense of obligation was actually more dangerous than his job. Chapter Two
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She simply had to stop picturing him naked. This is a calendar for schoolchildren. Shea Flanagan shouldn't have to keep reminding herself. But staring through the lens at a carefully, if grudgingly, posed Ryan Connolly brought all sorts of images to mind. Images that would be more appropriate for boudoir photography. "Come on, Shea," he prodded. "I haven't got all day here." "Take your time, Ms. Flanagan," Captain Morelli assured her with a smile. "We want to show our department at its finest." The rest of Engine 41's crew heartily agreed. They whistled and clapped, tossing out a few catcalls as well. All of which had Ryan shooting daggers at her. "I can't shoot with you looking so fierce." Shea should feel sorry for him, but she was too busy enjoying every second. "Turn your chin like I showed you." He just scowled. She sighed and stepped out from behind her tripod. Shaking her head, she walked to him. "If you keep jutting your chin out, the light won't hit it right. We don't have much light left, so help me out, will ya?" "Just take the damn picture, Shea," he grumbled. "This has already turned into a circus." She merely took his chin between her fingers and moved it back to where she'd put it not 30 seconds ago. "Right there. Don't move." She saw his throat work as he drilled her with that incredible clear green gaze of his. She had to fight not to draw her fingers slowly along his jaw and over those lips. They both gave new meaning to the term chiseled. She walked back to her camera before he could read her reaction. Not that he'd do anything about it even if he did. She was Casey's little sister and therefore, in his twisted male code of friendship ethics, off limits. "Well," she murmured as she framed the shot, adjusted the shutter speed. "I'm not so little anymore, Ryan Connolly." And no matter what Casey thought, he didn't dictate who she saw. Naked or otherwise. She brought him into focus. Damn if he didn't make her heart just trip all over itself. Always had. "Don't move. Hold it, hold it, and..." She snapped several shots. "Got it!" Just then the alarm went off, half scaring her to death. Ryan, on the other hand, looked relieved. Morelli stopped him. "Stay and finish this, Connolly." "It's my rotation, sir." Shea had to hide her smile at the pleading "please save me" tone in his voice. The captain shook his head. "You know how much community service means to me." He sent a wink toward Shea, then leaned closer to Ryan. "Besides, you know we're angling for more funding in this year's budget. Good press won't hurt. So buck up and answer the call. We'll handle this run without you." "Yes, sir," Ryan responded, only his clenched jaw giving away his displeasure with the order. Shea moved out of the way as three of the trucks rolled out and hit the streets, lights flashing and sirens screaming. Once the sound had faded, she turned back to Ryan. "I'm sorry." "No, you're not." She grinned. "You're right. And so was Morelli. Suck it up for the team, Connolly." His eyes flashed just then and Shea could have sworn there was something very...carnal in that look. Nonsense. He never thought of her that way. It was only her own overblown imagination at work. Or wishful
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thinking. Or both. She took in a steadying breath and pasted a not-quite-as-steady smile on her face. "I'd like to get a few of you in the truck. Maybe we could get the dog in these." Ryan held her gaze a split second longer. Just as she began to question whether she had, in fact, been imagining things, he turned abruptly away. He whistled and Barney came trotting over, all wagging tail and slobbery grin. "I know how you feel, pal," Shea muttered to herself. What had been up with that look anyway? But there was no time for analysis. The light was fading fast. "Okay," she said, walking over to him. "How about you open the door, start to climb in and freeze right ?" she grabbed his hips as he went to climb into the cab, stopping him with one foot still on the step "? there. Look over your left shoulder...." She dropped her hands, palms suddenly sweaty, when he did just that. "Smile like you don't hate this," she said a bit shakily. "Pretend I'm Pamela Anderson or something." "Blondes don't do it for me." The tone had her glancing at his face again. She was going to pose his arm right and adjust his chin ? again ? but there was something too direct in his gaze. At the moment, touching him didn't seem wise. She turned to the dog instead. "Okay, Barney, here's your big moment." She shuffled him past Ryan, up into the cab so he got on the seat. She ran back to her camera, set the shot as quickly as possible, then snapped her fingers over her head. "Barney!" The dog turned his head, Ryan pasted on a smile and a series of clicks later, it was all over. "We're done." Ryan relaxed, then caught an exuberant Barney as he tumbled from the cab into Ryan's arms. Laughing, he turned and dumped the dog gently to the ground before glancing up at Shea, who was busy snapping away. "I thought you said we were done." "Sometimes the best shots are the ones that aren't posed," she told him. Which was true. However, she knew these were for her own personal pleasure. Ryan, the way he normally was. Smiling, laughing, flirting. With everyone but her, that is. Well, that was going to change. If she failed, she failed, but a battle not fought could never be won. She swallowed her impatience and began putting away her gear. "So, who do I talk to for this interview thing?" he asked. She closed the lid of her last camera case and screwed down her tripod. "Me." "But you're a photographer, not a journalist." She smiled and handed him one of her bags. "Carry this out for me, will ya?" She felt him fall into step behind her. "And no, you're right, a journalist I'm not. But the team who is putting this together for the town council drew up a set of questions for me." She popped her trunk and stowed her gear, then turned and took the last case from him. "All you have to do is answer them." She pulled a small recorder from the trunk. "I don't even have to write it down. You just talk to me and they'll take it from there when they put the final layout together." She was talking too fast. But he was so good at avoiding her, she was just enjoying being close to him for a change. Really enjoying. "So. Where should we do this?" His eyes flared again. And suddenly it seemed there was no space between them. He still had his turnout coat on and about 20 pounds of gear. But that didn't lessen the sudden intensity between them. And she wasn't imagining it this time. In fact, as their gazes locked, she swore ? swore! ? his dropped, just for a second, to her mouth. She couldn't help herself, her body just took over, she began leaning a fraction closer, just to see what he'd do. When the alarm went off again. "Dammit," she whispered before she could choke it back.
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"This will have to wait," he told her, already jogging back inside. She touched her lips, lips she knew he'd wanted to taste. "Haven't I waited long enough?" she whispered. Chapter Three Ryan Connelly picked the safest place he could think of for his interview with Shea. Flanagan's Pub. With her brother, Casey, tending bar, surely he'd find a way to look at her, talk to her, listen to her laugh, watch her eyes sparkle...and not want to take her hard and fast right there on her barstool. So far, it wasn't working out quite like he'd planned. But then, where Shea Flanagan was concerned, when did anything ever go as planned? "It's too noisy in here for the recorder," she said between sips of her beer. "Why don't we finish up and head out somewhere more quiet." Ryan went to take a sip of his own beer, then stalled. The longer it took him to finish, the longer he was safe. Then inspiration struck. "What about the library?" That was about as sacred as a church. And mean old Mrs. Handover, who'd been there longer than dirt, was an even better chaperon than Casey, who was presently so busy he hardly paid them any attention at all. For all Shea's brother knew, he could be stroking his hand up her thigh right this second, touching every inch of that satiny skin she'd so torturously bared with those overall shorts of hers. How a getup designed to be so asexual could be so entirely opposite of that, he had no idea. But on her it was. The skinny strap T-shirt she wore underneath didn't help matters any. "It's past nine, Ryan. Library's closed." She arched one dark brow. "I wanted to meet for lunch, but nooooo, you were too busy. Just like you've been too busy all week. I've been dying to show you the shots and get your input on the ones you want me to send in for the final selection." "I'll go with your judgment." The last thing he wanted to see was a reminder of that day. She'd thought it had been the catcalls that had him steamed under the collar. Well, that part hadn't been fun, but he had actually been thankful for the guys' presence. No way could he have predicted how ? well, sexual was the only word he'd come up with ? a photo shoot could be. And he'd had on 20 pounds of gear for Christ's sake! But every time she looked at him through that lens, he swore she could see right past the brotherly facade he was wearing...to the decidedly carnal fantasies being played out in his mind. And then she'd had to go and touch him, pose him. The more impersonal her touch, the more aroused he'd become. It was pathetic how hot he'd gotten for her. He'd never been so thankful to head out on a call in his life. "I really want your input, Ryan. Why don't we go over to my place right now?" Casey chose that moment to pop by. "Hey, you two need a refill?" "Nope," Shea said, before Ryan could object. "Too noisy in here. We're heading over to my place, finish this thing up." Ryan covered his long-suffering groan with a last sip of beer. And any hopes that Casey would rescue him from his own out-of-control libido died before he'd finished swallowing. His Irish eyes, so much like his sister's, sparkled with humor. "Good. Free up these two stools for paying customers." Ryan had barely set his down before Casey popped their mugs off the bar. "Thanks for seeing her home safe, Ry." "I'm 25, big brother," Shea cut in. "And perfectly capable of seeing myself home." She grinned as she slid off her stool and leaned suggestively against Ryan's arm before he realized her intent. "Besides, maybe I'm luring him to my boudoir to see my sketches."
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Casey just laughed. "You'll always be my baby sister. And if you're going to torment me, pick another guy. The last person I'm going to worry about is this big lug." He clapped Ryan on the shoulder. Just kill me now, Ryan silently begged. Because, lifelong friendship aside, he wasn't certain he could keep his hands off Shea if she was going to keep being touchy-feely with him like she had been all night. And when had she started with that? Other than the occasional hug at the family dinners, which he skillfully evaded more often than not, he steered clear of those clever little hands of hers. But this wasn't the first brush of her soft, sweet body she'd tortured him with tonight. No, she'd found a hundred reasons to touch him. And had made good use of every one of them. To the point that if he stood facing Casey right now, Casey just might have all the proof he needed to put him out of his misery. Then she was slipping her hand in his and pulling him to the door, tossing a wave and a smile to everyone she knew on the way out. Which was just about the whole crowd. Several of whom looked twice at their joined hands and shot him a wink and a thumbs-up. "Familial affection," he wanted to shout. Except there was nothing familial about the way he felt, and never had been. The locals knew about his ties to the Flanagans and almost everyone knew of his close friendship with Casey, especially here in the family pub. So he was surprised to see such encouragement. Surely they understood that he'd never jeopardize that friendship, much less diminish what he owed to Casey and Shea's parents, by doing anything that might hurt their daughter. "Why don't you ride with me?" she suggested oh-so-innocently. Or was she so innocent? They were in the parking lot, beside her car and he realized her hand was still tucked in his. He went to pull away, but her fingers tightened. Reflex, he told himself. And the way she was looking at him right now? A trick of the lamplight. Her smile faltered then and he knew he should look away. Walk away. Jump in his truck and drive away. Somewhere, anywhere, where he couldn't put his hands on her. Because right now he wanted that more than he wanted his next breath. And, if he wasn't mistaken, that's what she wanted, too. God help him. It was impossible enough to curb his own cravings, but if he had to contend with some wild idea that she wanted him, too? Had he given away his feelings? He didn't think so. So how had this happened? "Ryan?" He couldn't look away. Trapped as surely as a man on the top floor of a burning building. Only he had no idea how to save himself. Or if he even wanted to. "We shouldn't do this, Shea," he said, his voice tight with restraint. "The interview?" she whispered, but it was clear she knew that wasn't what he was talking about. "I owe too much. To your parents. To Casey." "We're grown adults, both of whom my parents and Casey happen to love very much. They'd be happy for us, Ry." "I can't hurt you. It would kill them. And me." "You won't hurt me." "Shea ?" "Kiss me, Ryan. Or I'm going to kiss you. And once I start, I don't think I'll be able to stop."
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His whole world was standing in front of him, and yet the tiniest step in her direction would send him plummeting off a cliff. One step. And there would be no going back. "I warned you," she said softly. Then her lips curved as she reached up and pulled his head down to hers. And, heaven help him, he didn't stop her. Chapter Four Just kissing Ryan Connolly was better than the best sex Shea Flanagan had ever had. Any lingering fear of being rejected vanished the instant she pushed the tip of her tongue between those firm lips of his. His hands ? God, she'd wanted them on her for so long ? framed her face. There was no hesitance in his touch, not the tiniest waver in the way he took her mouth. It was almost as if he'd been wanting this as badly, and for as long, as she had. He backed her up against the car, the sweet pressure of him, every hard inch, pushing against her, made her knees weak. And her panties extremely wet. She'd dreamed of having him, buried deep, so many times...and now, to feel him, so close. Closer than she'd ever allowed herself to dream. Could it be this simple? Could he really want her this badly? But just as she relaxed, went to pull him closer, he was pushing away, letting her go. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding as breathless as she felt. "Jesus, Shea." He glanced around, as if expecting to find someone coming at him, fists swinging. Okay, it wasn't so simple. But she was smiling rather than pouting. It had been a much better start than she'd anticipated. Much better. The man knew his way around a kiss. "Casey won't kill you, Ry. Not if he knows it's consensual." Ryan swung his now dark green gaze back to her. "Don't use words like that." He raked his hand through his hair, looking both worried and a bit stunned. She liked that last part best. She felt a bit stunned herself. "Nothing happened," he insisted. She merely cocked her brow and folded her arms. He narrowed his gaze. "Okay, then. Nothing else is going to happen. Just give me the list of questions and the recorder. I'll even deliver them to the council myself, okay?" Although it was tempting to move forward, get back in his personal space, she stayed where she was. "Afraid to be alone with me, Ryan? You're going to have to be, sooner or later." "I've managed so far," he muttered. That stopped her. But only for a second. She tried to temper her grin, really she did. "Have you now?" She kept her arms folded, but shifted ever so slightly closer to him. "That's a bit of handy news to have." He stepped back, but bumped up against the car. "Only if you pay attention to it. Shea, I'm not kidding. We can't do this." "Oh, but I think we can. Quite well, if that kiss was any indication." "Didn't I just tell you to stop talking like that?"
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"You want to shut me up, I think you know the most effective way." "Shh!" He glanced over his shoulder at the door to the pub. Her smug smile faltered slightly. "Ryan, are you really so worried about Casey? Honestly, I'm a grown woman, you're a grown man ?" "Who owes a great deal to your parents. To Casey. Shea, without them...well, you know I wouldn't be standing here. I can't ? won't ? take any chance, or do anything to harm those relationships." "And why are you so convinced kissing me will ruin everything? Have you ever stopped to consider my family might be thrilled to see the two of us get together?" "No. Your parents have never even hinted at that. And Casey...we both know where he stands." She waved her hand. "Casey doesn't want any man near his sister. Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, Ry, but I'm no virgin. And my brother isn't in prison for homicide, so I'm thinking maybe you can stop worrying there." Ryan said nothing. He was staring at her with the most unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he said, "Who?" "Who what?" Her eyes went wide. "Who have I been to bed with? None of your damn business. All you need to know is there is no one in my life now." He just kept staring at her, looking all protective and murderous. And then it hit her. He wasn't feeling protective, not in a brotherly way anyhow. He was jealous. Jealous! "Why me?" he suddenly asked. "Why now?" She hadn't seen that one coming. How could she tell him it had always been him? "You're free, I'm free." She tried to shrug, afraid if he knew just how important this was to her, he'd run like hell. And it was more than important, it was her whole life. "So this is just a fling you want." He made it a statement. Meaning he wanted more? Or just thought she had. He went on before she could come up with an appropriate response. "That's exactly why I stopped. I don't think your parents will be thrilled if we're just fooling around. Someone will get hurt, then there will be hell to pay." She started to speak, but he pressed a finger against her lips. "I've paid enough, Shea," he said quietly. "And I take enough risks. I'm not willing to risk you." He let his finger drop away and she had to force herself not to sway toward him. He'd meant what he said, and she could see there would be no changing his mind. At least not tonight. "Okay," she said softly, flinching inwardly when he visibly relaxed. Was he so relieved to let this go? Let her go? "Just give me the tape and the questions." He'd asked gently. Maybe she hadn't been so good at hiding that flinch. She handed everything over, careful not to brush against him, not even his fingers. Fingers that had been so close to touching her, peeling off her clothes, stroking her skin and"I'm sorry, Shea."
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He was so damn sincere, she wanted to smack him. Or hate him. But she couldn't do either. She simply nodded. "You want me to follow you home?" "I only had one beer," she said. "I can find my way." "Okay." He stood there a moment longer. "Okay, then." But he still stood there, his expression completely unreadable now. "If it wasn't for your folks, for Casey..." he started, then trailed off. "I understand," she said, wishing she didn't. "You are special to me, Shea." "Yeah, I know." And she did. Dammit. She forced a smile. "But if you tell me I'm like a sister, I'm going to have to hurt you." Now a hint of that charmer smile of his surfaced. "I don't believe I'd ever kiss a sister like I just kissed you." She smiled back. It was that or cry. "I should hope not." They stood there a moment longer, then he finally nodded and moved away. She should just let him go. Live to fight another day. Because she wasn't going to give up. She needed to regroup a little. Okay, a lot. Figure out just how she could convince him that they could have something special. Maybe a forever kind of special. She knew it. Knew it. That kiss told her he had to at least suspect it, too. Which was why she blurted out, "You're special to me, too, Ryan Connolly. More than you know." He paused, looked back. "And, for the record," she added, voice trembling just a bit, "I wasn't just interested in a fling." Chapter Five Casey Flanagan wouldn't have to kill him. Ryan Connolly would simply kill himself. What in the hell had he been thinking to put his hands ? much less his mouth! ? on Shea Flanagan? He knew what he'd been thinking with. Enough already. He went back to wrapping hose and stowing gear. He'd turned the interview notes in a week ago and had successfully avoided the entire Flanagan family since. But tonight was family dinner night. He'd known he couldn't hide forever, but he'd hoped that by now he'd have been able to put that scene in the parking lot in better perspective. He hadn't. What he'd done was lain awake at night, trying like hell to convince himself that Shea was wrong. They couldn't have anything together, special or otherwise. And once they went down that path, put more than their hands and mouths on each other...there would be no going back to the way things were if it went bad. And he simply couldn't bear that. For her...and, honestly, for himself. And, when he did sleep, his dreams did nothing to convince he'd made the right decision. In fact, they went as far in the opposite direction as possible. He'd told himself after waking to his fifth cold morning shower in a row, that he was simply working it out of his system. Better to do that in his dreams than for real. Maybe it was time to find someone else to occupy his thoughts...and his body. Only, no one measured up to Shea. In fact, he realized now, he'd always compared women to Shea. They'd always come up short.
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How long had she felt this way about him? He slammed the compartment door shut and swore under his breath. It didn't matter. It couldn't. He turned to the next truck...and as if his thoughts had conjured her up, there she stood. "What are you doing here?" It had come out harshly, but he was in turmoil here and being caught off guard hadn't improved that any. The bright smile she'd been sporting faded abruptly. "Here," she said, pulling her hand out from behind her back and thrusting something at him. "Congratulations. You made the cover." She walked away. He glanced down, felt the color drain from his face, then looked back up. "Wait!" "I've got other calendars to deliver." She kept walking. He trotted after her. "Shea, stop, wait. I was abrupt back there. You just...caught me by surprise." "You can't hide forever, Ry." She was climbing into her car. He put his hand on the door before she could close it. "Wait just a damn minute." She shoved the door open, surprising him into stumbling backward. "No, you wait just a damn minute, okay? I didn't come here to jump you. But I'm not going to lie to you, either. I don't regret a single second of what happened the other night." He glanced over his shoulder. "Shh, keep your voice down." "But it's obvious you do." She sighed. "I don't want to lose our friendship. And I don't want you avoiding my family because you're trying to avoid me. You didn't want this to happen. Nothing is going on between us, so there is no need to hide." Easy for her to say, he thought morosely. She wasn't making love to him for hours every night in her dreams. She wasn't straddling his hips, arching her back, riding him like ? "I don't want you mad at me." She pulled the door shut and leaned on the open window. "Then stop acting like I have the plague, okay?" He opened his mouth, had no idea what to say to her, so he just nodded. "The council is going to contact you about speaking at one of the elementary schools." "Excuse me?" Now she smiled. "Deal with it, cover boy." He just gave her a look. "What exactly do you mean by 'speaking'? I'm not a public speaker, Shea. I fight fires, that's it." "It's a way to promote the program. You go in, they introduce you, you tell a little about what you do and they get to ask you questions. They're little kids, Ryan. I don't think they're going to be too rough on you." She paused, then added, "I'm going to be there, too. They want photos of the speaking events, for future promo, brochures, et cetera." She smiled up at him, but this time it didn't reach her eyes. "I'll protect you, okay?" It wasn't okay. He thought he was done with this. Or more specifically, done with his close involvement with Shea. "Do I have a choice?" "No." She smirked at him, but he still couldn't read her eyes. Maybe she wasn't as cavalier about walking away from what they almost started as she pretended.
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For the record, I wasn't just looking for a fling. Those were the words that had launched a thousand hot dreams. He couldn't get them out of his head at the moment either. "You coming to dinner tonight?" she asked. That snapped him out of it. "Uh ?" He'd been hoping to pull a double shift, avoid going, at least for this week. But he wasn't needed tonight. And it was stupid to hide like this anyay. Besides, he seemed to be the only one with the problem here. "Yeah, I'll be there." "Okay then. Good." She pulled her seat belt on, cranked the motor, put the car into gear...but went nowhere. Neither did Ryan. Shea ?" He was bending down before he knew what he was going to say, before he could question why it was he couldn't just let her drive away. Again. "It's ?" "Late. I've got deliveries to make." She kept her face averted. He kept leaning on the window, his face inches from hers. "Okay. See you tonight." If she turned, just turned her head, her lips would line up with his. And, in that moment, he wanted to taste her. Badly. To just have her, with no strings, none of the risks. "Why does it have to be so complicated?" It wasn't until she turned to him, that he realized he'd spoken out loud. "Because," she said softly, her lips a mere whisper away from his own. "The best things in life don't generally come easily." She looked into his eyes, searching for...what, he wasn't sure. "You know that better than most." "Yeah," he said. His voice had gone all gravelly and rough. "Yeah, I do." She said nothing. And for a long moment, neither did he. "But does it always have to be difficult?" he asked finally. "Shouldn't some things be simple?" "It's as simple as taking it," she went on. "As complicated as wanting it enough to make it work out the way you want it to." doesn't?" "What if the world ends tomorrow? What if you run into a burning building tomorrow and don't come back out? Ask yourself, what would you regret more? Going for what you want, for what might be the best thing you ever had in your life? Or playing it safe?" A little smile teased the corners of her mouth, though her eyes were huge and a bit sad. "And since when have you ever played it safe?" He opened his mouth, only this time she stopped him. With a breath-stealing, body-hardening, but achingly gentle kiss. "Think about that, Ry." And then she was gone. Chapter Six As it turned out, Ryan Connolly did end up on a call last week and missed the Flanagan family dinner. Shea Flanagan pulled up at her parents' house. But he'd be here tonight, she thought. He'd better be. She smiled as she got out of her car. He'd been so wonderful with the kids earlier in the week. She'd known he would be. In fact, the council was so happy with how things were going, they'd put out a press release that
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had resulted in Ryan getting interviewed by several local papers. The story of his childhood had grabbed the attention of one of the major dailies and from there it had sort of mushroomed. Even Shea couldn't believe how fast this was happening. But it was happening. Ryan was suddenly in the spotlight. And, amazingly, so was she. Both as the photographer on the project...and as part of Ryan's now well-known childhood. The town council was eating it up. So was Ryan's captain, who was seeing dollar signs in the upcoming budget vote. Which meant Ryan and Shea were flying to Chicago tomorrow as the guests of a national talk show, to discuss the project and how other communities might get involved. Her family was excited about it and the possible professional opportunities that might unfold for her. They were also excited and proud of Ryan, who, despite being a reluctant role model, had stepped up and done his best to promote the project. The only person she hadn't actually discussed it with was Ryan himself. But that would change tonight. No way was he leaving here without talking to her. After all, they had to share a flight tomorrow. And adjoining hotel rooms tomorrow night. She had to clear this thing up with him once and for all. She shouldn't have kissed him. Shouldn't have pushed herself on him. When he'd avoided her after their first kiss, she'd promised herself she was going to let it go, do whatever it took to salvage their friendship. But, dammit, he wanted her. And if she didn't push, how else was he ever going to see what was right in front of his face? The tooting of a horn made her jump. Ryan. She walked to his truck as he pulled in behind her. "Hey." He got out, but stayed by the door. "Hey, yourself." "Hell of a week," she said, walking around to his side. "You got that right." He shifted his weight, looked down, then back up at her. "Listen, Shea, about this thing tomorrow in Chicago." "You're not backing out, are you?" He shook his head. "But...we should talk." She folded her arms. "I know. I tried to corner you after that talk you gave at the community center last night, but ?" "I was surrounded," he said. "And when I finally got free, you were talking to one of the councilmen. I had to get back to work, so ?" "I know." She blew out a long sigh. "Ryan, I never meant for this to become a wall between us. It's just ?" She stopped, biting down on what she so badly wanted to say. Let it go, Shea. Just let the man go Then his finger was beneath her chin, tipping it up so her gaze met his. And, dammit, she trembled. His touch did that to her. And she'd ached for it for what felt like forever. "I know, Shea. That's what I want to talk to you about. I thought about what you said. About regrets. In fact, despite the nightmare our lives have become ?" "It's not that bad," she said, cutting him off, suddenly terrified by what he was going to say. His fingers stroked along her jaw. "I've thought of little else," he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. "I can't get you out of my head. And, if you want to know the truth, you've been there for a very long time." He let his hand drop away, then blew out a long breath. "There, I said it."
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She was stunned. "How long?" she whispered. "A lot longer than you should have. Forever it seems." He lifted a hand when she started to speak. "I have to know something, before we say anything else to each other. Why me? Why now?" She smiled, tried to stop her thighs from shaking. "It's always been you." She thought she'd melt into a puddle as his pupils shot wide in reaction to her admission. "As for why now? It's a bunch of things. My turning 25, finally finding success with my job, becoming confident about myself, about what I want." She looked down, then back up at him. "I've always wanted you, Ryan. I just...I just never thought I could have you. Do you remember that fire on Franklin, a couple of months ago?" He frowned. "The warehouse? Turned out to be a faulty generator. It was nothing, why?" She gave a half shrug. "I was downtown that day. I saw you run into that building. I ? I know you've tackled fires far worse than that one, that you really weren't in any danger that day. But it was the first time I'd ever seen you doing what you do. Risking what you risk. Every day. And I thought, 'Shea, here he risks his life, and you're afraid to risk your ego, your heart, because he might say no.'" She lifted her chin. "So, I decided to take some risks myself." He grinned, but his gaze was zeroed in on hers. "That was three months ago." She smiled. "It took a while longer to build up my courage. I'm not as brave as you." He laughed then. "Like hell. I'm just as scared as the next guy. Everything is a risk, Shea. Just leaving your house in the morning." He stepped closer. "Which is what I've been thinking about." "Leaving your house?" He gave her a look and she laughed. He moved closer still. "About taking risks." He tipped her face up. "I think we've already taken that step that can't be taken back." He took a breath. She held hers. "So why don't we take another. And another after that. See where it goes." "Ryan ?" "I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want to hurt your family. So, if you'll make me one promise. Let's do this on our own, out of the spotlight. Just for a little while, until we know where it's going. Can you do that for me, Shea?" "I would. But how are ??" "We're going to Chicago tomorrow. We'll...start then. Away from here. Just give me the next couple of days to deal with you. With us." He laughed nervously. "Us. Wow. I can't believe I'm even thinking of there being an us." She grabbed his arms when he went to step away. She looked him right in the eyes. "There's always been an us. Always will be." "I know," he said quietly. "I don't want to lose that, Shea. Above all else, I don't want to lose that." "Me either." "Okay then. Tomorrow." Shea nodded, unable to actually process what he was offering. Oh, she knew what he was offering...but it was so much bigger than a night in a hotel. In his arms. Oh my God! That was so huge she couldn't focus on anything past it just yet.
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"Shea? Ryan? What are you doing out there behind the truck?" Mrs. Flanagan called out. "Come inside, dinner's ready." If the panic in his eyes hadn't so clearly reflected her own, she might have laughed. "No backing out." She gripped his hand and dragged him to the house. Before they both jumped in their cars and ran like hell. Chapter Seven The flight had been awful. Ryan Connolly paced his hotel room. The attendant had recognized him, and monopolized his attention until they landed. Shea had been tucked right next to him, and he hadn't been able to do a thing about it. The instant they'd stepped off the plane, it had been mass chaos. Media attention right in the airport, then the rush to the studios to do the taping, then dinner out with the television people.... Shea had seemed to enjoy every bit of it. All Ryan could think about was what came after the media glare went away. When they went back to the hotel. Alone. Only, he hadn't expected to be this alone. "Where is she?" he muttered. She'd been held up in the lobby by a call at the front desk and had waved him upstairs, promising she'd be right up. That had been 30 minutes ago. She'd chickened out. He knew it. Had almost convinced himself to call down and see if she'd gone. Then he remembered that look in her eyes before she'd taken the phone. The same look she'd privately flashed him every chance she'd gotten throughout the day. The one that said, "Later, you're all mine." His pulse leaped, amongst other things, just thinking about it. They'd been good all day. Not touching, hardly even speaking. Wanting to explore this...this thing between them in complete privacy. A tentative knock at the door stopped his pacing. Shea. Here. Right on the other side of the door. Now. Waiting for him. If he wasn't so damn nervous, he'd laugh at himself for being so damn nervous. It was Shea, for God's sake. Shea, the woman who'd known him all her life. The woman who'd kissed him as though she wanted to stick around for the rest of his. He yanked the door open. "Hey," she said with a quiet smile. "Damn, but you're beautiful." It just came out. But he'd never meant anything more. And you're mine, he couldn't help but add to himself. She blushed, but laughed, pushing past him with a roll of her eyes. "I look like a woman who hasn't had a moment's rest since she got up at four this morning." He snagged her arm and swung her around...and right into his arms. "You're beautiful to me." She tried to smile, but he saw the nerves playing around her eyes. "So, I'm not the only one scared out of my mind, huh?" he said. "You sure don't...feel scared." Her smile grew as she pushed forward and bumped hips with his. His eyes widened in surprise, but he grinned. "We're really doing this."
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"We're not doing anything yet," she pointed out. He leaned down to kiss her, take her, do all the things he'd been dreaming about, but stopped just a breath away from her lips. "Are you sure, Shea? Absolutely sure?" She wrapped her arms around his neck, wove her fingers into his hair, and pulled him the rest of the way to her mouth. "Mmm-hmm," she murmured against his lips. "I want all of you. For as long as you'll let me have you." His control snapped. He'd meant to go gently, slowly. Do everything in his power to make this the most perfect moment for her. So she'd stick around. Forever. But she tasted like...Shea. Like the best of everything. And he was hooked, addicted, gone, from that moment. If his kiss was consuming, hers was just as ravenous. They battled for possession of each other's mouths, their hands pulling at clothing, their bodies shuffling toward the bed. His shirt and shoes were history before they collapsed on the mattress. Shea was down to her panties and bra. "Did I mention you're stunningly beautiful?" This time it was Shea talking. And Ryan blushing. "Come here." He pulled her to him, and under him. He took her mouth again, using his tongue the way he was dying to use his body. And he was going to. Finally. It should have been awkward, Shea thought. It should have been nerve-wracking, letting him see her naked for the first time. Well, the first time since first grade when she'd lost her suit in the community pool and Casey and Ryan had stolen it and kept her trapped in the deep end for an hour. "You've filled out," he teased, as if reading her mind. And she wouldn't be surprised if he was. She'd always felt in tune with him, had wondered how that would translate to lovemaking. Now she knew. And it was better than she'd ever dreamed. She slid a hand between them...and downward. "So have you." His eyebrows shot up, then he laughed and rolled to his back, pulling her astride his hips. "What in the hell took us so long?" She moved over him...and slid down onto him. Her answer was lost in a low moan of pleasure, echoed by his own groan. "Have no idea," she finally mustered. "But we're not waiting this long again." He gripped her hips and moved inside her. "Jesus, Shea," he gritted out. "You fit me like ?" His words were cut off by a deep growl of satisfaction when she tightened around him. "Like I was made for this? For you?" She leaned over and caught his bottom lip in her teeth, keeping her thighs clamped to his hips. "I was. I am." "If you don't stop that, I'm going to ?" He rolled her to her back again, pinned her roaming hands to the bed above her head. "I want this to last longer than five seconds, okay?" He was panting, but he was grinning. "We've got all night," she responded, unable to wipe the grin off her own face. "Oh, we've got longer than that." He leaned down and caught her lip this time, then her earlobe, then the curve of her neck, then he moved lower. She whimpered when he slid out of her, but her protests died when he pulled her nipple between his lips.
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"I plan to have you for a long time," he promised. He kissed her intimately and she bucked beneath his lips. "A very ?" another kiss "? long ?" a prod of the tongue "? time." Her response was the climax that ripped through her. And then his weight moved deliciously over her again, and she was clawing at him to get on top of her, inside her. "Please, Ryan. Now." "Hold on to me." He wrapped her legs around his waist just as he thrust inside her, and kept on thrusting. She met every one, her climax reverberating inside her each time he pushed deep. She reached for more, wanting it all. And got it. Ryan was still shuddering from the force of his climax when he carefully shifted his weight off of her. Never in his life had he felt anything close to what they'd just done with each other. He pried open one eye, reached out and stroked the hair off her damp forehead. "You okay?" "Mmm-hmm," she murmured, eyes closed. "Not too rough." She smiled and shook her head. "Again." He tried to snort, but it came out like a whimper. "Give me a few minutes, okay?" Then, because she was way too far away from him, he tugged her closer, draped her leg and arm around him, tucked her close. She was already asleep. He smiled and stroked her cheek, her lips. "There is no going back, Shea," he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair. "I've always loved you. Now I know it's forever." He relaxed, letting the soft sounds of her breathing lull him to sleep. She was forever. Now all he had to do was explain that to her family. Chapter Eight "I think we should tell them as soon as we get home." Shea gripped Ryan's hand. She felt as if it had always been there, strong and dependable. And hers to rely on. She could only hope he felt the same way about her. She smiled. The way he was holding on to her, she believed he did. Ryan peered out the window of the plane as it taxied toward the terminal. "They probably figured it out when we stayed in Chicago through the weekend." Shea didn't fight the wicked grin that curved her lips. The past three days had been the best of her life. And it was only the beginning. She and Ryan had fit together in every way possible. He made her laugh, he made her heart sing...and her body had never been so incredibly content. And this morning, in the shower, he'd impatiently demanded that she marry him. She'd delightedly said yes, thinking that would make an interesting story to tell their children, when they asked how daddy had proposed. "I didn't exactly explain why we were staying. I'm sure they assumed we were doing more publicity." She tugged at his hand until he turned to look at her. "They're going to be thrilled for us, Ry. Stop worrying. My mom will have a wedding to plan, she'll be over the moon. And Casey ?" Ryan groaned. "Will kill me for what I've done to his little sister."
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"Hey, you're making an honest woman of me." She pulled him close, kissed him gently and smiled up into his eyes. "And now you'll be brothers for real." "I didn't think about it like that," he said, then dropped another kiss on her lips. Then another. "You're amazing, you know that. Why did we take so long to figure this out?" "I think we needed to be ready." He laughed. "I guess I should be glad you took the initiative. I might have been taking cold showers every morning for the rest of my life." She nudged him. "About those dreams...any others I should know about? Any we haven't made come true yet?" He flashed her a wicked grin of his own. "We still have the honeymoon." "Oh, I imagine we won't run out of things to do to each other for, say, another 50 or 60 years." "Only 50 or 60? Shoot, and here I had such high hopes for my 90s." She laughed. "By then we'll have forgotten half the stuff we've done and have to start over." "Sounds like a plan to me." They were still smiling as they left the plane, hand in hand. It took them a moment to realize the cheering section standing at the gate was for them. "Um, Ryan?" He stopped nuzzling her neck long enough to look at her. "What?" She just nudged and pointed. "Oh my God." There stood both Shea's mother and father, along with Casey, several of Ryan's firefighter buddies, and about half the regulars from Flanagan's Pub. All holding signs that spelled out some variation of "Congratulations Ryan & Shea!" "No way could they know," he whispered. "Maybe they mean congratulations on the television program." She squeezed his hand. "Although I'm pretty sure since you had your lips locked to my neck a moment ago, they've realized there might be a bit more to celebrate." Ryan looked up in time to see Casey charging at him. He instinctively pulled Shea behind him and put his hands out. "I love her, Casey. I'm going to marry her." Casey didn't stop coming...until he'd wrapped Ryan up in a big, Irish bear hug. "Damn straight you are! It's about time you figured out what was right in front of your face." "What?"But before Casey could explain, they were enveloped by Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan, who were laughing and crying and hugging them both. "Did I hear something about a wedding?" Mrs. Flanagan gasped. Ryan managed to nod, while simultaneously being swallowed up against her more than ample bosom.
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"Oh," she sniffed, "this is the most wonderful news I've ever had. I've been hoping for this moment for as long as I can remember." Shea and Ryan managed to disentangle themselves, both looking a bit shell-shocked. "You have?" Shea said. "But you've never once given even a hint you thought we should be together." Her mother arched a finely shaped brow. "Now, would you have listened to me if I'd pushed you together then? Of course not. I could only sit back and hope you'd find each other before I went completely gray." Shea laughed, but still looked a bit stunned. Her father stepped forward and took Ryan's hand in his. "Welcome to the family, son. Again." Ryan's eyes burned as Jim Flanagan pulled him close and clapped him on the back. "I'll take good care of her, sir. The best." Jim stepped back, the same blue-eyed smile of his children twinkling in his eyes. "Oh, I've no doubt of that, boy-o." He pulled his wife and Casey close. "We'll be watching your every step." Ryan swallowed hard, but nodded confidently. "I won't let you down." Mrs. Flanagan pulled away from her husband, batting at his hands. "Oh, now don't go and scare the boy." She patted Ryan's cheek. "You never have let us down. We just want the best for both of you." Ryan pulled Shea into his arms. "You've given the best to me. And for that I'll be forever grateful." Shouts of "Kiss her! Kiss her!" came from the peanut gallery. Never one to disappoint, Ryan swung a laughing Shea into a dip and planted one on her. But the hoots and whistles rapidly faded the instant he had his lips on hers. When they finally straightened, neither's knees were steady. He traced her cheeks with his fingertips. "I love you, Shea." "I love you, Ryan." She took his hand in hers, her eyes bright and shining. "Don't let my family make you crazy. We're going to be great." "Your family made you, didn't they? And they're my family, too." "Did I mention how much I love you?" He kissed her again, then holding hands, they turned as the rest of the throng descended on them, surrounding them with well wishes and congratulations. *** Several hours and more than a few celebratory pints at Flanagan's later, Shea and Ryan escaped back to Shea's apartment. Ryan had her up against the wall before the door was kicked completely closed. "Thank God. I've been dying to taste you again." Shea was already pushing his shirt off his shoulders. "Me, too. I love my family, but I never thought they'd let us leave." "Maybe we should elope," Ryan murmured as he nibbled her collarbone.
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"Yeah, that'll happen. My mother would disown us both." She stepped out of her skirt and finished unbuckling Ryan's pants. "But there's nothing to say we can't get a jump start on the honeymoon." "Amazing," he said, cupping her breasts, leaning down to capture one tight nipple in his mouth. "I was just thinking the same thing." Shea pulled away before she ended up naked on her own foyer floor. She danced past him and grabbed her camera as she raced to her bedroom. Ryan caught up with her at the door. "What is that for?" She aimed the lens at him. "You're not the only one with hot dreams." "Shea ?" "Just for me." She snapped one before he snatched the camera away. "Okay hot flash, fair's fair." He aimed the camera at her. She squealed and grabbed a pillow to cover herself. Ryan laughed and tackled her on the bed. "We'll make our old dreams come true later. Right now I'm more interested in building some new ones." And they did.
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From Lust to Love by Cathy Williams Following the death of her father, a grief-stricken Ellie James goes to Las Vegas on a whim to try to enjoy the New Year. She meets and falls in love with handsome and worldly Leo, and spends a night of passion in his arms. But in the morning, wracked with guilt over her impulsive behavior, she runs back to England without a word. What she doesn't realize is that her one night with Leo will change her life forever. Leo Silva is a rich and powerful man, but he still carries the pain he felt after Ellie's flight from their bed in Vegas. Now, engaged to marry a beautiful socialite, he must track Ellie down and finally put their union behind him. He isn't prepared for the feelings she inspires within him once again....
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE Leo Silva had never believed in fate. His grandfather had emigrated a pauper from South America with his young family in tow and had pulled himself laboriously up the ladder against all odds, and his father had carried on the tradition, building the Silva empire brick by sweat-drenched brick. His was a tradition of education, hard work, and keeping one step ahead of the opposition. There was no room for the simpering luxury of believing that results came from anywhere other than the ability to outthink, outperform and outmaneuver anyone and everyone. But fate, out of the blue, had suddenly appeared on one of the back pages of the New York Times and the timing could not have been more propitious. Leo glanced down at the passing article that had caught his attention and smiled with utter satisfaction at the blurry picture staring back at him. Eleanor James, enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame for deflecting a shooting incident at a high school in inner city London. Would she have had any idea that her act of bravery would cross the Atlantic to find its way to his desk at 7:30 on a grim November evening? He almost laughed out loud at the splendid coincidence of it all. But he didn't. Instead, he pushed his leather swivel chair back, all the better to stretch out his long legs on the surface of the highly polished walnut desk, and reached for the telephone. The call took less than ten minutes and it was to his trusted friend, the only person now who knew his secret and the potential it had to irrevocably ruin if not utterly obliterate the highly organized and carefully plotted path of his life. "Antonio, I have found her." No preliminaries because none were needed. Antonio Ruiz would know precisely to whom he was referring, as indeed he did. "How?" "Pick up your copy of the New York Times and turn to page twelve. There is a little article somewhere near the bottom of the page, very easy to miss. She is living in London, it would seem, and is hale and hearty and saving little children's lives." He leaned heavily back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling, allowing his beautifully proportioned mouth to curve into a smile. The smile of the predator that has finally found its prey, after an exhaustive chase. "Your papa would be happy, may his spirit rest in peace."
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"Indeed." "I take it you would like me to ensure that you are on the next flight over?" "Concorde." He stared at the tips of his handmade Italian shoes and for the first time in four years, felt an uncustomary feeling of peace settle on his broad shoulders. "No need to waste resources finding out about her life. There is no time for that. I just want her telephone number and where she is living." "Of course." "Oh, and Antonio, it goes without saying that secrecy is of the essence. Especially in view of my highly publicized and eminently satisfactory betrothal." He tried to think of Caroline but instead found his head full of images of a fresh-faced, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl, a wisp of a creature with a smile like sun breaking through clouds. "The ticket will be on your desk no later than lunchtime tomorrow. Oh, and Leo ? good luck." Leo smiled grimly and savored the pleasurable feeling of knowing that luck was the last thing he needed. He had found her and now, at last, he was in a position to exorcise that hidden, sordid detail in his past once and for all. CHAPTER TWO "Another cup of juice? Please?" In the middle of frantically trying to tidy the kitchen while stuffing one small cheese sandwich, one fun-sized apple and one cereal bar into a bright red lunch box shaped like a rocket, Ellie paused and grinned at her son. "You're trying my patience," she chided, lifting him up and kissing him noisily on each cheek before depositing him back to ground level. "I'm thirsty," William complained hopefully. "And I'm in a rush. If we don't leave now, we'll be late to Jenny's and then I'll end up late for school. You wouldn't want Mummy to end up late for school, would you?" "Yes." "No, you wouldn't, and besides Jenny said you little devils are in for a treat today. She's going to take the three of you to the swimming baths and then to a park. I've already packed your bathing costume." The carrot dangled provocatively for a matter of seconds and then the small face, with its mop of black hair, broke into a smile. Juice was promptly forgotten. She grabbed her handbag, fumbled inside it for the house key, and was on her way to the front door when the telephone rang. Ellie looked at it, in two minds as to whether she should delay her rushed departure by picking it up. But then it might be Jenny. Maybe she was ill and wouldn't be able to have William today. Even the best of childminders had their off days and who else could be calling at 7:45 in the morning? "Wait here," she instructed her son. She half ran to the telephone, snatched it up, and said, "Yes?" into the receiver. "Eleanor James?"
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"Yes??" She felt a tingle of apprehension flutter like moth wings inside her stomach, even though she had no idea who was on the other end of the line. It was just the tone of voice. Soft, lazy, somehow purposeful. Not like any of the reporters who had been hounding her for the past few days, ever since that incident at the school. Thank goodness other more recent events were beginning to overshadow hers. She had given her press conference, reluctantly, posed for pictures, also reluctantly, and she couldn't wait for all the fuss to die down. "Remember me?" And suddenly it hit her. Like a sledgehammer to the skull, temporarily paralyzing her power of speech. Temporarily turning her legs to jelly so that she had to immediately sit down on the nearest kitchen chair. "I'm sorry?." she stammered. "If you're a reporter," she added, clutching the last straw at her disposal because the alternative was too horrific to bear thinking about, "I'm in an awful rush. I've already said all I have to?to say, anyway?." "Tut, tut. You disappoint me." A soft laugh came down the end of the phone, but it wasn't a pleasant laugh, designed to lighten a situation. "Don't you remember Las Vegas? Four years ago?" "Las Vegas." Her mouth had developed the texture of cotton wool. "Four years ago." "I've been looking for you for quite some time." There was no use in holding on to the pretense that she didn't know who was talking to her. She glanced toward the kitchen door, suddenly praying that William wouldn't begin to make any noise. He was busy trying to retie his shoelace at the moment, but toddlers could move from a state of relative silence to one of screeching pandemonium in a matter of seconds. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to sound firm, trying not to let her trembling hands convey a similar message to her vocal cords, "I'd love to sit here and chat but I'm in a terrific rush?." "So why do we not meet later? Say 7:30 this evening for dinner. A table has been booked at the Square. Hanover Square. Very elegant, highly rated, so I believe. I will expect you there. Oh, and Ellie, do not even think of not turning up because I have your address and I will not hesitate to come and find you. We have so much?to talk about?." Ellie replaced the receiver, her mouth dry, and stared blindly at her son, at their son. So much to talk about?so much for her to lose? CHAPTER THREE It was that fact, and that fact alone, that was the deciding factor. Of course he had her address and of course he would use it. Ellie had been so successful at pushing those unwelcome memories to the back of her mind. All these years and they had only peeped out once or twice. Yes, it had been hard. Especially at the beginning, when she had found out that she was carrying his baby. Hard coping on her own, with neither parent alive to give her the moral support she needed and no siblings to help her see things through. And it had been hard knowing that her son would be born without a father, or at least without a father he would ever know, because she hadn't even known her lover's last name. Sitting at her dressing table now, preparing to meet him, the thought of it was enough for her to rest her head in her hands, taking deep breaths in an attempt to quell the terror rising up her throat like toxic bile.
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Two days with him. She could remember the first day but then her memories of the second day, New Year's Eve in a city that was going wild with the excitement of it all, were hazy to say the least. She had behaved, well, she could barely sit and contemplate how she had behaved. No amount of reasoning to herself that she had been an emotional mess then, that she had been acting out her grief at her father's death, could take away the shame of knowing that she had drunk so much that she had lost her virginity to a man she had barely known, that she had woken up with a splitting headache in a strange bed with a strange man sprawled next to her, that she had fled the scene like a thief running from a crack of a gunshot. The fact was that she had coped. And nothing's going to change, she told herself fiercely. I'll meet him, answer his questions. Because he would want to know why she had run out on him. That was, of course, why he had contacted her. She might not remember the details of their brief relationship too clearly once the drink had started taking hold, but she could remember the sort of man he had been. The sort of man good girls like her had always been warned against. Except, she hadn't been a good girl then, had she? She had fizzed with a high voltage, sparkling intensity that had been as out of character then as it was now. She had concocted an elaborate story about herself, all pure fiction, and in a city buzzing with surrealistic brashness, had enjoyed every minute of it. She had no longer been just plain Eleanor James who had gone to America on the spur of the moment with her best friend to enjoy a bit of living, to try to escape the great well of unhappiness inside her. She had been Eleanor James, a high-society queen, glittering with experience, poise, and savoir faire. Just as he had glittered with experience, poise, and savoir faire. Except his had been the real thing. He would have quailed in horror at the thought of sleeping with a virgin and she had escaped before she had been forced to face her own silly fabrications. Escaped back to England and dealt with the consequences. "Right, Jen, I'm off now." They were in the sitting room, Jenny and William, with the television on, although William was too absorbed in his bricks to pay it much attention. "William, you're in bed in five minutes!" "You look?gorgeous, Ellie. Meeting anyone dishy?" "Oh, just some passing acquaintance who's in London for a couple of days. I'll be back by ten." She walked purposefully on her high heels to where William was crouching in front of a lopsided tower of wooden blocks and gently kissed the childishly soft nape of his neck. This, she thought, was what mattered and all that mattered and no one was going to take that away from her. CHAPTER FOUR Leo had requested a table from which he would easily be able to see Ellie the minute she walked in, before she had time to see him. Right at the back of the room, in the corner. Her eyes would travel hesitantly among the rest of the diners before they alighted on him, and he would enjoy those first few, valuable seconds, enjoy looking at the woman who had eluded him for four years of fruitless searching. He would also enjoy observing the only woman who had ever run out on him. And so completely, as though she had dropped off the face of the earth. He raised his glass of wine to his lips, took a sip, and sat back in the chair, as casually relaxed as a tiger waiting for its victim to thoughtlessly approach to within striking distance. He barely noticed his surroundings, just registered that they were elegant, refined, reeked of good taste.
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And then he saw her and every muscle in his body froze as he was slammed back into the past. Just as he had predicted, she gazed a little helplessly around her for a few seconds. She hadn't changed. Still had that straight black hair, dropping to her shoulders like a curtain. Her figure was as boyishly slender as he recalled and her high heels made her look longer, more womanly. He sat up straighter and his gaze wandered involuntarily to the slender brown envelope. The reason for this meeting. When he next raised his eyes it was to find her staring at him, and the directness of her blue gaze instigated a rush of feelings that he had not even been aware existed. Uppermost was undiluted antipathy toward the woman who had left him high and dry and worse, had taken a piece of his soul with her in the process. His mouth tightened and he watched broodingly as she hesitantly approached his table. Under the stubborn tilt of her head, he could read fear in her eyes. What the hell did she have to be afraid of? If anything, she should be feeling the same relief that he had felt, knowing that this business could be put behind them both forever. Although, perhaps she didn't know?. "So you came," he drawled, when she had finally sat down and was facing him across the expanse of white linen and silver cutlery. "And you seem less than overjoyed to see me." He beckoned to a waiter without taking his eyes off her and ordered a bottle of Sancerre. "How did you find me?" Her memory had been rather less dependable than she had anticipated. He had not been just worldly wise, dark-haired, and handsome. She was trying hard not to stare but she couldn't help it. The man was frighteningly good-looking. His face was more angular, more imposing than she remembered and those steel grey eyes were as cold as the Scottish ocean on a winter's day. "It was very difficult," Leo admitted coolly. "Did you purposefully try to deceive me, or did lying your head off about your background come as second nature to you?" He was overcome by such a powerful surge of rage that he downed the remainder of his wine in one long gulp. "Is that why you came here to find me? So that you could discover why I?why I walked out?" "Apparently your family all lived in Boston," he said coldly, "but peculiar as it seems, my search soon came to a dead end in that area. Then there was the law degree at Harvard. No one there had ever heard of you." Two bright patches of angry color flared in her cheeks. "You had no right to track me down!" "Nor would I have made any attempt to do so," Leo informed her coldly, "but we both know why I'm here, don't we?" "What are you talking about?" A strange panic took root in her chest and she wildly wondered if he had somehow found out about William. Had he? Had he come to claim his son? And what was she going to do if he had? CHAPTER FIVE Ellie tried to get a grip on her thoughts, which were veering madly out of control. "Even with detectives at my beck and call," Leo said into the silence, "I probably would never have found out your whereabouts if it had not been for your little act of bravery."
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"Little act of bravery." "Now, now, not another little act, I hope." He sounded as paternalistic as a father reproaching his wayward child for stealing biscuits from the biscuit tin, but his eyes were like flint. "You have already done the wealthy socialite from Boston with a law degree and a bucket of money to burn in the gambling halls of Las Vegas. Do me a favor and do not attempt the modest little English girl with a taste for heroics." He paused, giving the waiter time to pour them both a glass of wine and giving her time to digest his words. He really hadn't meant to treat this as anything but a necessary meeting after which they could both return to their lives, none the worse for wear. But suddenly, the specter of her deceit had risen up before him and taken a bite from his good intentions. Hell, he had never been deceived by anyone in his life before. Not by colleagues, adversaries, and certainly not by a woman. "The articles in the newspapers," Ellie said with growing dismay. "You read the articles in the newspapers." She frantically tried to recall whether mention had been made of her son or whether they had dealt with just the episode, the shooting, her intervention. She certainly had said nothing to any of the reporters about her private life, might even have referred to being a single woman and with no wedding ring on her hand, there would have been no assumptions made. But even so? "One article." Leo smiled grimly. "Your fame made it across the waters," he informed her. "And my lawyer, socialite, and wealthy heiress was transformed into a schoolteacher in a secondary school in Central London. It would seem that the only piece of truth you uttered was your name." "What did you read?" Ellie realized that she was leaning into the table, her body language speaking of her desperation to find out what he knew, and she made a concerted effort to draw back. The question seemed to throw him for a few seconds and he frowned. "Why does it matter?" he grated impatiently. "What matters is that it served its purpose. I located you." "But what exactly did you read?" she insisted. "That you saved the day. One crazy boy wielding a handgun, a classroom of terrified children, and one courageous young teacher. All equals a local hero." "He wasn't crazy," Ellie cleared her throat and wondered why he didn't just come right out and tell her that he knew about his son. Maybe he was just into torturing women. But it didn't hurt to buy some time, give her a chance to work out what she would do in the circumstances. "He was suffering fr-from exam nerves," she stuttered on in the face of his expressionless, heavy silence. "There was never any chance that he was actually going to use the gun. Not to me, anyway. All I did was to talk to him?. Sometimes people just need to be talked to?." Her voice trailed off. She was barely aware of the menus being handed to them or of her eyes flitting across the fancy options. She knew that she had ordered fish of some description and that her wineglass was being topped up. "But you didn't come here to listen to an explanation of what I did, did you?" she whispered numbly, linking her fingers together on her lap, safely out of sight. "Quite right. I did not." Leo pushed the envelope across to her. "I came here because of this?." CHAPTER SIX Ellie hadn't known.
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Deep down, Leo had felt that she hadn't known or she would never have walked out of that bedroom. Watching the changing expressions on her face now, the suspicion hardened into fact. She was shocked, looked as though she was going to faint. When she half staggered to her feet, he automatically reached out to steady her but she feverishly flung his hand aside and sat back down. "No," she whispered, raising her eyes to his briefly and then scanning the document in front of her again as though not too sure that it was really there, stretched between her trembling fingers. "It can't be?we can't?" "It can and we are," Leo told her harshly. "We can't be married." Her mind refused point-blank to cope with the revelation. "We can't be?I would know?how could I not know?? I would know?I would remember?" He laughed dryly, almost feeling sorry for her in her state of shock and then sharply reminding himself that he had fallen for her once, fallen for that magical, vulnerable side he had glimpsed in her four years ago, which had been persuasive enough to make him lose his own self control to the extent that he had actually talked to her. About things that mattered. About the loss of his father. About his trepidation at stepping into shoes not yet cold to take over an empire that would certainly greet his arrival with antagonism. "What do you remember about what happened?" he rasped. He was hardly aware of the food being placed in front of him and waved the solicitous waiter aside with barely a glance. Ellie looked at the aggressive stranger in front of her and shivered. "You've changed," she murmured, dipping her head and forking some fish into her mouth. It tasted of nothing. "Of course I have changed. It has been four years!" Her observation had emerged as a criticism and it rankled. "You have changed even more," he attacked coldly. "Now you teach schoolchildren." "Please don't keep reminding me of?of?" "Your boundless capacity to lie?" he insinuated silkily and watched her pallor disappear beneath a pink blush. "I can't believe?" "Why did you lie to me?" There, it was out. The question he told himself he could care less if she answered. Ellie shrugged and glanced up at him, instantly regretting it when their eyes tangled and a steady throb began in her temples. Never mind what she had said about him changing. One thing had remained the same. He was as compelling as ever. More so. Her first lover and her only lover. Her whole body tingled as sudden, sharp memories flooded her mind and she closed her eyes briefly to clear the unwanted, intrusive image. "Does it matter? What matters is that?" "It does not matter, but I still demand to know." "You demand?" "I?would like to know," Leo said brusquely and for the first time since she arrived, he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across her face. That smile, in full wattage, could move mountains, he remembered, and he irritably shoved the memory away. "Well, it just seemed fun at the time. The whole thing was?fun, and I was desperate for some fun." Ellie put her knife and fork down on an unfinished plate of food. "I'm sorry, I'm not very hungry."
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"I will get the bill. We will go somewhere a little less?formal to continue our talk." When he saw the flash of panic on her face, his mouth tightened. "We still have to sort out this mess, so another escape is not an option." Not now that he had found her, and especially not now, at this juncture in his life, with Caroline hovering in the background, the whole Hoffberg dynasty hovering in the background, ready to cement the union of the decade?. CHAPTER SEVEN It was freezing cold outside. Cold and windy. Ellie drew her coat around her and sank into the back of the taxi with relief. "Where are we going?" "My hotel." "Your hotel?" she gasped, looking at Leo in horror. Such horror, in fact, that he was seriously tempted to remind her of just how warmly pliant she had been the last time they had met. "Not my hotel room, Eleanor, my hotel. It is big, modern, and has more than one bar attached to it. As I see it, it certainly beats traipsing through London in this weather looking for a halfway empty pub." "Right." She sank back against the seat and sighed. "Heavens, I must have had an awful lot to drink the night we?" "Got married?" Her reluctance to voice the bald, unpalatable fact that was staring them both in the face was beginning to irritate him. Anyone would think that being married to him was a fate worse than death. And it was hardly as though she was in his situation, with a fiancée in the background and a reputation that would be well and truly pummeled should the truth ever emerge. "Will you tell me what happened? The last thing I really remember is dancing and laughing and then getting into a car, I guess to go back to the hotel." Leo looked at her averted profile, the slender column of her neck, the upturned palms of her hands resting limply on her lap. Then his eyes strayed higher, to where her coat now lay open and in the shadowy darkness of the taxi. He could make out the firm swell of her breasts beneath the prim woolen dress she was wearing. He looked away abruptly. "Right on one count, wrong on the other. After two bottles of champagne, we got it into our heads that we should get married." This time, Ellie did look at him. She couldn't remember the circumstances but she sure as heck could remember the feeling that had accompanied them. The feeling that yes, it was right between them, that they were made for one another. The demon alcohol had a lot to answer for. "Getting married in Las Vegas is something one can do on the spur of the moment," he continued dryly. "No need for blood tests, no need to wait, and everything open all hours. For the pricey sum of ninety dollars, we got a license and treated ourselves to a gem of a drive-through wedding." He laughed grimly. "You were clearly too far gone to enjoy the experience." "It was like being on a roller-coaster ride," Ellie said miserably. "The whole world was spinning and nothing felt real in retrospect." Reality had set in soon enough, though, when she had returned to England, to the small house she had inherited on her father's death and to the prospect of imminent motherhood. Her little secret. She felt sick at the thought of dealing with it.
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"You walked out." "I had to!" "Care to explain why?" "It was just a bit of fun that got out of hand." "Just a bit of fun?" It hadn't been just a bit of fun for him, he realized now. For the first time in his life he had let down his defenses, had allowed his emotions to rule his head and he hadn't been so drunk at the time that he hadn't known what they were doing. Getting married. But God, he thought with angry realization, he had wanted it. He had wanted to marry her. After only a few hours in her company, because he had known Anger at himself spread to a generalized anger at her. Caroline with her haughty blond beauty and her moneyed background faded like a pebble being carried away by a surge of rushing tidal water. This darkhaired nymph who was so mortified at finding herself attached to him by a marriage certificate had never been expunged from his head. But she would be. And he knew how?. CHAPTER EIGHT The bar was as impersonal as Leo had promised. It nestled in the basement of the hotel, was fairly dark, which was good, fairly intimate, which was less good, and fairly crowded, which was essential. Because Ellie was finding his presence nerve-racking, and that was only partially because of the extraordinary circumstances of their meeting and the gut-wrenching agony of her own little secret. The fact was that her body was not behaving the way it should. He seemed to be emanating some kind of lethal electric charge that had every pulse in it jumping. She watched covertly as he strode up to the bar to get their drinks and then lowered her eyes as he turned to swing back toward their table, which was set aside from those in the center. "So," Leo said, handing her the glass of wine she hadn't ordered and sitting down opposite her. "I asked for orange juice." "You were telling me why you lied to me." "You can't let that go, can you?" "I have never been lied to before." "Never? What a sheltered life you must have led." Her eyes skittered away from the smile of pure charm that altered the harsh arrogance of his face. "Easy prey for a woman like you." But the hardness she would have expected was missing from his words. They were almost teasing, which surely couldn't be right considering the mess they were now in. "No law degree," Ellie said, taking a very small sip of wine and then gently depositing her glass on the circular table. "No rich parents, I'm afraid. No Boston, in fact. I guess," she sighed heavily, reliving the weight of sadness that had propelled her visit to far-off shores, "I was just so sad at the time. My mum had died the year before and my father had died only a matter of months before I went to America. I was very?very close to my parents, you see, I just wasn't ready for either of them to die, never mind both." She rubbed her eyes with her thumbs and drew a deep breath.
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"I understand." Ellie didn't want his understanding. It complicated things, turned her secret into a guilty one, even though she could not have located him when she had discovered the pregnancy even if she had wanted to. "You came along and you made me feel like a princess, so I turned myself into one! I created someone interesting and radiant and carefree and I made her wealthy because I didn't think that you would be too interested in someone who was pretty poor, someone who was just out of teacher training college and was planning to teach eleven-year-olds at a school not seven miles from the house she had lived in since she was a child. That would have been too dull for you, so I turned myself into somebody else, somebody more interesting. I needed to escape for a while and so I did. It's as simple as that." Yes, it made sense. Her laughter had been joyous but brittle and her eyes had been too damned honest for him to really believe what her mouth had been saying. That was why he had fallen for her. Which didn't mean that she hadn't screwed up his life one way or another. "I suppose you're furious," she said, expecting his wrath and waiting to receive the blow because she could deal with his wrath a lot better than she could deal with that glimmer of wordless compassion that he had earlier shown. "More like impressed with your acting abilities," Leo told her wryly, "I don't suppose you teach drama by any chance." "English and geography." He was looking at her, really looking at her and the directness of his gaze made her feel suddenly giddy. Something here had changed and she didn't know what. She just knew that she had to get away before?before what?? Before something happened that shouldn't?something that she could not afford to let happen? CHAPTER NINE "So how do we?get a divorce?" Just saying the words felt a little unreal. Here she was, in a marriage that she could not remember getting into, although little bits were beginning to creep back into her head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slowly coming together, and with a child about whom her husband had no idea. Husband and wife. Ludicrous, unsettling, frightening. "That bit I haven't as yet checked out," Leo admitted. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs, closing the distance between them. Seduction was beckoning to him like the finger of Fate. He had fallen in love with her; she had treated him as a therapeutic dalliance, a passing cure for her problems. A score needed settling and he had never before run away from settling scores. Oh, no. It wasn't in his blood. Caroline was an arrangement but this was old business. He would deal with it. "Do we need to go back to Las Vegas?" Ellie chewed her lip worriedly. "I couldn't possibly do that. I? My job? And besides, I just don't have the money?." Not to mention the small problem of their son, the son he didn't know about. She felt faint. "Oh, I shouldn't think that would be necessary." He lightly reached out to hold the tips of her fingers, softly stroking them and she snatched her hand away. "What are you doing!" "We were good together, weren't we," he murmured. He watched as she drew away. "Have you had many other lovers since me?" "I should go?."
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"Why? Now that our little problem is out in the open, where's the harm in chatting like two adults? Besides, I still have a few questions to ask you?." "Questions like what?" "Why did you run away like that?" "I? My flight back home?" "Truth." Ellie could feel his masculine presence surrounding her until she could barely breathe. He seemed to have edged closer to her somehow. His knees were practically touching hers and her fingers were still tingling from their brief contact with his hand. What was going on here? "Well?" he pressed softly, mesmerizingly. "I?" She remembered giggling as they drove through, signing her name, looking up at him adoringly and his eyes laughing back at her. Two carefree people signing their lives away. She must have blanked out the memory, shoved it away somewhere and now it was coming back out of its hiding place. "You wouldn't understand?." Her voice was half-pleading. "Try me." Suddenly telling him didn't seem important anymore. Why should it? He was part of her history now. What she did about William was another matter, something she would sort out in due course. "I wasn't?the kind of girl you thought I was. Like I said, it was all a bit of a game, a bit of a laugh, playacting. But when we got back to the hotel, well, it wasn't playacting anymore and?and?I know it seems ridiculous but I was?twenty-one and I had never?" He was looking at her with growing incredulity. It would have been comical if she had taken time out to observe him from a distance, but Ellie was caught up in her own mortification, still alive and kicking after four years. "You were a virgin," he said in amazement. "Shh!" Ellie looked around her and lowered her voice, bright red with remembered embarrassment. "Didn't you know? Hadn't you guessed? I never looked at the sheets. I assumed?" "No, there was no indication. A virgin?" The urge to touch her, feel her intensified until he was aching with it. "And now?" he murmured. "Have you saved yourself for when I came back??" CHAPTER TEN Ellie started. When she spoke, she tried to sound amused and dismissive but she could hear the tremor in her voice. "Don't be ridiculous! I never?expected you to come looking for me! I'm amazed you even remembered my name!" "You were my wife."
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"Yes, I realize that now?but I didn't know?. I put it behind me?." Her words were becoming hopelessly tangled, less because her mind was confused than because of the way Leo was looking at her. And the crazy way her body was responding to him. As though she had been flung back through time and was once again seeing him through the eyes of the girl she had once been. Once been? "True. But here I am. So, tell me, were there any other men?" Ellie was rendered speechless and in the silence, he slowly nodded. Any other men? She found that she was shaking her head. No, only him. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken words and very slowly she reached out. It was as though her hand moved of its own accord ? she was compelled to touch that skin, feel the warmth burn her fingers. Her lips were slightly parted as her trembling hand brushed the side of his face. She had leaned toward him and Leo felt an explosion of desire that rushed at him and through him with the fury of a freight train. He struggled to remember that he was engaged, that this meeting was all about business, but? "What do you think it would be like? To relive old times?see whether we really were that good together?" He heard the roughness of his own voice saying things that his brain should have censored. He took her hand and stroked the soft flesh of her palm with his thumb. No thoughts of Caroline, or the perfect suitability of their loveless union, could fight the ferocity of what he was feeling right here, right now. He kissed the tender underside of her wrist and felt her shiver. Her response fired the racing need inside him. "That's?that's crazy?." Ellie whispered. And it was, wasn't it? He was a part of her history now?but she felt something stir inside her, a gnawing realization that she had never forgotten him, not at all. Why else had no men attracted her since him? Why else had she been able to laugh with them, chat with them but had never wanted to be touched by any of them? Yet here she was, wet with desire after a matter of a couple of hours spent with Leo. "I should go home now?." she said unsteadily. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his face or her treacherous hand out of his. "You?you can get in touch with me about?about the situation?. I'll sign whatever?whatever needs signing?." He looked at her from under thick, dark eyelashes, saw her tremulous mouth, felt the skittering of her nerves, knew that she was feeling just as he was?. In that split instant, when he should have been taking a firm stand for reason, his mind was flying toward a destination he never knew he wanted so badly, until now. "Your home." His voice lingered over the words and the idea of sleeping with her filled him with groin-aching desire. "I?must go?." Thoughts of William sleeping peacefully in his bed surfaced through her muddled brain. She nearly had a heart attack on the spot. "You want to go home alone? Are you trying to convince yourself or me? Why don't I drop you at your home? What is it like?" "No!" Panic surged through her but beneath the panic, the irresistible, powerful pull of desire was making her thoughts sluggish. She couldn't afford to be like this, barely able to think clearly. She had too much to protect. But?
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"I have a room here, Ellie. A suite?" "Don't say that!" "Why? You are trembling. Is that for me?" His voice was thick and ragged and with a soft moan, Ellie leaned forward and captured his mouth blindly with hers, offering herself freely to him, curving into him, heading for an oblivion she had to have but one that she knew she would regret?. CHAPTER ELEVEN Ellie could feel her heart beating wildly as she followed him into the elevator. Leo's arm was still around her, draped over her shoulder, and her fingers were linked through his. They looked the picture of a normal couple in love. Was this how she had felt four years ago? In love? Had fun become something deeper? She couldn't think about that now, not when the lift doors were opening and he was walking along with her toward a door, slotting in the card used by the hotel in lieu of keys, closing the door behind them?. Then their hands were everywhere. Before they could even make it to the king-size bed that she could just glimpse through the door ahead of them, her back was pressed against the door and her eyes were closed as she fumbled with his belt, helping him to yank it away, one less obstacle between the eventual touching of flesh against flesh. The light, soft wool of her dress felt like a uniform of iron, her tights were like cling film around her legs. She couldn't wait to free herself. And he couldn't wait to free her. Gone was the mastery and self-control he usually brought to his lovemaking. In its place were raw, primitive urges that had him shaking. He tugged the long zipper of her dress and pulled it down until her lacy brassiere was all that lay between his hands, his mouth, and the soft paleness of her heaving breasts. Craving was something he hadn't felt for a woman, not since? Attraction, yes, but this sharp pull on his senses was driving him crazy, turning him into a madman. He slid the straps of her bra down and groaned as his eyes feasted on the jut of her breasts, the big circles of her nipples with their hard, throbbing nubs that were begging for his mouth. With one easy movement, he lifted her off her feet and carried her swiftly through to the bedroom, then he lay her on the bed and watched her watching him as he stripped himself of his clothes. It was all very gratifying to see her feasting her eyes on his impressively aroused masculinity. It was also doing nothing to slake the frenzy of desire that had burst through him like water breaking free from a dam. "You don't know what you are doing to me," he moaned, finding the bed, finding her body, divesting it of dress, tights, underwear. "I came on a mission?." He had to touch her. Everywhere. Breasts, mouth, stomach. His fingers found the moistness between her legs, rubbed her until she was crying out and fingers were not enough. He felt as if he were coming home. He hated the feeling but he was drowning in it. Making love had never been this good and afterward, lying with a woman had never felt this satisfying.
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Ellie sighed and turned on her side so that they were facing each other, her breasts squashed against his powerful, broad chest. Their legs were tangled together under the sheet. "Good?" He looked down at her and reached to stroke some hair away from her face. "You don't really think I'm going to pander to your ego by admitting that it was fantastic, do you?" she teased. When he smiled back at her, she felt as if she were surrounded by a blanket of warmth. How could she not confess about William? How could she not tell him that he was father to a toddler who looked uncannily like him, same set to his mouth, same shape to his eyes? She cleared her throat and in the fraction of time it took for her to try to think of a way of composing her words to say what she had to say, the telephone rang. Leo barely moved to reach it. Just leaned onto his back with his arm still under her and snatched up the receiver. Then he was sitting up and so was she, watching the tense set of his shoulders and knowing that something had happened?. CHAPTER TWELVE Leo slung his legs over the side of the bed and spoke softly into the telephone. Behind him he was aware that Ellie was looking at him. He had just slept with her, had delighted in every second of it. He should be feeling as guilty as hell right at this moment, with Caroline speaking to him, but he didn't. "How did you know where I was?" he asked in a low voice. Without looking backward, he disappeared into the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom without bothering to shield his nudity. "Well, Antonio wouldn't tell me and it all sounded so?mysterious." She didn't sound thrilled with the mystery, however. She sounded furious. "In case you'd forgotten we were supposed to be spending the weekend with my parents and the Robinsons. Very difficult now that you're no longer even in the country, wouldn't you say, Leo?" "How did you know where I was?" he repeated. Caroline had been the natural conclusion to a relationship that had commenced eight months previously through an artificial setup by her parents, who were keen to see her married to someone rich and powerful enough to maintain her lifestyle. He had fitted the bill and she, likewise, had suited him. Her voice grated at him down the end of the receiver and he was keenly aware of the naked, passionate creature waiting for him in the bedroom, waiting for his hands to touch her, set her alight once again. "You're?what?" His mind had drifted from what she had been saying but it became very alert now. Caroline, in a first ever interruption of her hectic social life, with its lunches and facials and manicures and shopping in only the most exclusive of designer stores, had come to London. He suddenly felt vastly irritated. He didn't want her here. He didn't, he thought, want her. What the hell was wrong with him! His face was grimly set when he strode into the bedroom five minutes later. Lord, but she looked edible sitting there on the bed with her knees drawn up and the sheet pulled to cover her breasts.
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"What's the matter?" "I apologize but you're going to have to go." Ellie didn't say anything. The stranger with the shuttered, angry expression was back and all the warmth she had felt, the certainty that she would tell him the absolute truth of their situation, drained out of her like water down a plug hole. "Right." "Don't look at me like that," he muttered, raking his long fingers through his hair. "I'm not looking at you like anything." "You know?I would rather you stayed." But he was already slinging on his boxer shorts, pacing the room with a sort of restless energy that made her wonder what the heck that phone call had been about. Business? Trouble at the office? Did it matter? He had slept with her and now he was ready for her to clear off so that he could get back to his real life. Her heart was beating fast as she took her cue from him and got dressed in record time, not bothering with the tights, which she shoved into her handbag. The silence stretching between them was agonizing. "I need to see you again," he told her roughly, closing the space between them so that he could grip her forearms with his hands. "I had not planned for?this to happen." "Should I be flattered by that or insulted?" Ellie asked coldly. "I have something to sort out." "Yes." She grabbed her coat and glared furiously at him. "The small matter of our divorce. Just send me whatever papers I need to sign, Leo, and I'll sign them. No need for us to lay eyes on each other again. Let's just put this down to a spot of fun." "I'll be in touch." "You have my phone number. Use it. I don't want to see you again. Twice is enough?." CHAPTER THIRTEEN Leo and Caroline met for breakfast in his hotel restaurant. She was still fuming. A few hours of slumber had done nothing, he noted dispassionately, to ease her temper. Caroline was not accustomed to upsetting her plans for anyone and trekking to London behind him was a stupendous upset of all her plans. Credit to her that sheer cunning had led her to him. But her anger was certainly going to go up by several notches when he told her what he had to. However neat a business arrangement their marriage would be, he didn't want it. He was shocked that he ever had. But then he had forgotten the nature of passion, the animal craving that could turn your life upside down, the vital ingredient of any successful marriage, surely. And all those old feelings, still there, had only ever been resting. Crazy but true. "Caroline," he interrupted her wearily in midtorrent, "this isn't going to work." For the first time since she had stormed over to his hotel, he saw a flicker of alarm mar those perfectly proportioned features.
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Yes, you're right, my darling." She leaned forward, the essence of blond, expensively maintained chic and he instinctively drew back. "I'm behaving quite out of character. So let's just forget any explanations of why you're here and enjoy ourselves a little." She smiled coyly. "Perhaps choose a wedding ring? What better place than wonderful London?" "You do not seem to have heard." This time the alarm blossomed into full-blown fear. "It is over between us. I do not love you nor do you love me." Of course it couldn't end there. In his dreams, maybe, she would have gracefully allowed him to leave, but she didn't. She followed him back up to the hotel room, refused to give him the luxury of retreating from a situation he had drifted, stupidly, into. "What exactly has been going on here, anyway?" she asked, narrowing her glacial blue eyes, and Leo's face flushed darkly. He just wanted her out, wanted to get on the telephone and call Ellie. Just the prospect of hearing the soft modulations of her voice filled him with a sense of yearning. And he had work to do. Had to sort out her understandably hurt feelings at the way he had been forced to ask her to leave, no explanation given. "Nothing has been going on," he lied, mostly to spare her feelings even though he knew that whatever she said, Caroline would bounce back from this rejection, no broken heart involved. "I needed to think so I came here. A place where my face is not known. And now," he informed her, "I am going to have a very long bath. When I come out, Caroline, I do not want you to be here. We have said all there is to say." "And what am I supposed to do? Tell everyone? My parents? Friends? That I have been ditched?" Leo took one step forward, his face cold. It was enough. "You'll pay for this, Leo," she said, stumbling backward a couple of paces, but as far as he was concerned, the conversation was at an end. He turned his back on her, strode toward the bathroom and slammed the door very firmly and very pointedly behind him. As soon as he figured Ellie was back from school, he would call her, throw his pride to the four winds and do whatever it took to convince her to see him again. Four years ago and in the space of only a matter of hours, she had crawled under his skin and lodged there. Sleeping with her one more time had cured him of nothing. If anything, it had stoked his desire. Things were not working out quite the way he had expected?. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Ellie heard the ring of the doorbell only minutes after she had stepped foot back into the house and her heart lurched in her chest. She didn't want it to be Leo, but at the same time she desperately hoped that it was. They had parted in anger and it wasn't right. That was the thought that had taken root in her treacherous mind and refused to budge. Besides, there was the problem of William to address. She had spent the whole day thinking about that, chewing on the issue like a dog with a bone and was no nearer to knowing what she should do.
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Of course, she should tell him. She knew where he was staying. One phone call. But then the thought of doing that, facing yet more rage, not to mention the host of complications that would ensue, made her mind clamp down on the thought. If that was him at the door then so be it. She pulled open the door, already braced to see him, fortifying her unsteady heart not to respond and her mouth dropped open in bewilderment. "You must be Eleanor James." "Who are you?" "May I come in?" Caroline didn't wait for an answer to that one. She gently nudged against the door, relying on curiosity and the very British capacity for politeness to work in her favor. It did. "You must be wondering what I'm doing here," she said, looking around her. Small house. Very unimpressive. But the girl had something, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. "Let's just say that I managed to rescue your name and address from a certain electronic diary that was lying carelessly on top of a certain dressing table." It took a few minutes for Ellie to gather herself together and remind herself that this was her house and whoever the beautiful blonde was standing there, peering around with a barely concealed expression of distaste, she was the intruder and should be the one answering the questions. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" She folded her arms together and coldly scanned the face now finally registering her presence after an insolent inspection of her surroundings. "I do apologize. Caroline. Caroline Hoffberg." "Well, Miss Hoffberg, I don't know what you're doing here but I would like you to leave." "Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't. Not yet, anyway. Not until you hear what I've got to say." Ellie felt a sickening mix of bewilderment and apprehension race along her spine. "You may not have heard of me, but I wonder?have you heard of Leo Silva? Ah, yes, I can see from your expression that you have. I don't suppose he's mentioned me, has he?" The smile was a mask of hatred. "No, no, he wouldn't have. Not many men feel free to discuss their fiancée to another lover." "Fiancée?" "That's right, and here's the engagement ring to prove it. One question?how long has it been going on?" Please. Leave." But her voice was unconvincing. She wanted a hole to open up and swallow her whole, or better still to open up and swallow the viper standing in front of her. He had slept with her, made love to her, and he was getting married. It all made sense. His anxiousness to sort out their little problem, the phone call, her hasty departure. She felt soiled, mortified. "How long?" "Nothing's going on between us," Ellie stumbled over the words. "Yes, I know him but I haven't laid eyes on him for four years. Last night was the first time I've seen him?since then." "Really." She paused, allowed her eyes to drift behind Ellie who followed her gaze in terrified slow motion to where William had appeared from the direction of the kitchen, clutching a toy truck.
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"And who?is that? No, please, allow me to guess?." CHAPTER FIFTEEN Things couldn't get any worse, could they? Caroline had taken one look at William, seen the significant resemblance to Leo, and had taken a shot-in-the-dark guess at the secret Ellie had been miserably clutching to herself. She knew. "Well, well, well. Now there's one for the books. So this was the reason for Leo's sudden dash to get over here. Did you contact him? Try to blackmail him? Oh dear, that wouldn't have thrilled him. Not at all." She laughed with malicious delight at the implications extending in front of her like a river of possibilities. "I did nothing of the sort," Ellie gasped. She scooped William up from the ground and hugged him to her. "Now go." "Of course. I wouldn't dream of keeping you further." The smile was still there, still promising all sorts of mischief as Caroline walked slowly toward the front door. "Well, I must say, we may no longer be New York's fairy-tale golden couple, but ?" she opened the door slightly, while continuing to afford Ellie her malevolent amusement "? if it had to come to an end, then I really couldn't have imagined a more dramatic way for it to do so.?" "And what way would that be?" The voice that startled them both was soft, dangerous, and very male and filled Ellie with such paralyzing dread that she felt her arms tremble convulsively around her son. "Into the kitchen, darling," she whispered, setting him on the ground, snatching her window of opportunity as Caroline and Leo exchanged words that she could only guess at. "Play with your trucks for a little while and Mummy will give you a chocolate when she comes in." When she straightened back up, it was with the one wish that Caroline was still there, odious though she was. Just another adult who might dilute the inevitable. Her eyes slid in panic up to Leo's face. His killer looks still had the ability to shoot right through her and anchor her to the spot. What had Caroline said? Had she told him? Surely she had not been there long enough to do that final piece of damage. But then she could see the answer. His expression was still, but it was with the stillness that comes before a storm. "What are you doing here?" she finally asked weakly. "Something to tell me, Ellie?" He took a few steps closer to her. "I hope not. I sincerely hope that what Caroline just said was nothing more than the words of a scorned woman." Ellie closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. "I?I was going to tell you," she whispered. "Going to tell me?what?" A few more steps. Now he was standing directly in front of her. She could breathe him in, could smell that unidentifiable scent that was all him, a clean, masculine, rugged scent that filled her nostrils and made her want to collapse. "Four years ago?that night?" The silence was deafening. William was obviously doing as he had been told with the promise of a chocolate spurring him on to good behavior, but it no longer mattered anyway.
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"I have a child." His flat statement shot straight into her like an arrow and she nodded. "I have a child and it was so unimportant a fact that you decided to keep it to yourself." His mouth was a grim line and she could tell that he was trying very hard to keep his rage on a leash. "I? You don't understand?." "Enlighten me." "Look, this isn't the place or the time?." She glanced nervously behind her and on cue, William appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, just as he had only minutes before. Impeccable timing. She turned back to Leo but he was no longer staring at her. His eyes were all for his son, his black-haired son who was such an exquisite carbon copy of himself?. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Since their confrontation in Ellie's hallway, time had passed in a blur of misery and confusion. There had been no chance for them to talk at that time, although the parting glance from Leo had promised that talk would come soon enough, and she would not like what he had to say. And now, here she was, a mere one day later, waiting in the same sitting room where she had watched Leo with his son. William was with Jenny. The promised talk was only a matter of minutes away. The ring of the doorbell made her stiffen in the chair for a few moments, then she walked with deadened feet toward the door and pulled it open. "Come in." "Look at me," Leo commanded, as she turned her back to him, preceding him into the sitting room. "When I have this conversation with you, I want to see every expression on your face." "If you intend to start threatening me, Leo, then I'm going to ask you to leave." She had rehearsed in her head all the possibilities and had come to only one conclusion: She would not be browbeaten into anything. Leo might be rich and powerful and influential but he wasn't going to do anything that she didn't want. Like take William away from her. That thought had crossed her mind in her nightmarish imagined scenarios and it had made her sick with fear. "You are in no position to do any such thing." He sat down on the chair opposite her and then immediately stood back up and began pacing the room, as though his restless, raging energy simply couldn't be contained. "Why," he asked, pausing by the window to stare down at her with icy loathing, "did you never contact me to tell me that I had fathered a child?" "Because I couldn't!" "Couldn't? Or wouldn't?" "I never knew your last name. At least, I couldn't remember it. Like I said, there was a lot I really couldn't remember about that night." "So you say."
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"It's the truth!" Her eyes flashed angrily at him. "And anyway, would you really have appreciated it if I had stormed into your life and informed you that you were going to be a daddy after a one-night stand?" Ellie laughed bitterly. "I can't imagine you would have thrown your arms around me and whooped with joy!" With seething self-disgust, Leo thought that he might possibly have done just that. "Anyway, I couldn't even if I had wanted to." "And had you?" he ground out. "Had I?what?" "Wanted to tell me." "I?" Ellie lowered her eyes. "It had never been an option." He let that go. "Right, so let's just go along with this excuse of yours for a minute. Why the hell didn't you tell me as soon as I contacted you?" Another surge of violent anger made him smash his fist heavily on the window ledge and she jumped. "Did you intend to say anything at all?" "Did you intend to tell me about your fiancée?" she threw at him in retaliation. "Or was it perfectly all right to sleep with me while you had another woman in tow?" Under cover of being a perfectly reasonable accusation, Ellie heard her jealousy surge out into the open, and jealous she had been. Bitterly hurt, angry, and wrenchingly jealous. "That is beside the point!" "Oh, it is, is it? It's a crime for me to keep William to myself for a few hours, to give myself a chance to think about the situation, but it's just fine and dandy for you to do whatever the heck you want without any fear of being criticized!" "This is getting us nowhere," Leo said coldly, pushing himself away from the window to continue his restless prowl of the room. "I have thought about the situation and I have decided that there is only one thing to do?." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Ellie's head flooded with possibilities but only one took root, and it was the one she had been mentally shying away from over the past few hours. Leo wanted to take his child from her. She had watched the way he had played with his son the day before, seen the tenderness on his face, had known that he would not relinquish his hold or even think twice about the impact it would have on his neatly ordered life. "We will remain married. There will be no convenient divorce, but you will return to America with me to take up the position as my wife and mother to my son." For a few seconds, Ellie wondered whether she had heard correctly, then she looked at the expression on his face and realized that she had. "I beg your pardon," she said, however. "You heard me." Leo picked up one of the pictures of William and looked absently at it, before replacing it on the shelf by the window. "You're mad!"
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"Mad? From where I am standing, this is the only sane solution I can see." He moved to where she was sitting in shocked nervousness and bent down, placing his hands squarely on either side of her. "And I really do not see your opposition to the idea considering that you married me once four years ago on the spur of the moment. I would say that this time there is all the more reason for us to be united, for the sake of our son." "I didn't know what I was doing! We both behaved in a silly, irresponsible fashion! We were under the influence of alcohol and swept up in the heat of the moment!" "I tell you this now, Ellie. My son will be where I am. I do not intend to play the role of absentee father, nor do I intend to conveniently divorce you so that you can return to your life as single mother, struggling to make ends meet." "I do not struggle to make ends meet, Leo." "There will be no argument on this subject." "And what will you do if I refuse?" She felt as if she was literally choking, with his face thrust so aggressively close to hers. The impact of his proximity was so intense that it was almost like a physical force pushing her back into the cushioned chair. "Fight you every inch of the way." "You wouldn't stand a hope in hell!" she retorted, squashing the thought that he might just stand more of a chance than she was prepared to admit. "I'm his mother, he's spent his whole life living with me, here, in England. You can't buy everything with money, you know." "Ah, but how do you think he would feel when he gets older and he discovers that his mother knowingly denied him the opportunity to be with both his parents, that his father was prepared to look after you both, but for purely selfish reasons you decided to turn your back on the suggestion and carry a helpless infant along with you for the ride. Will he love you for that? Maybe not?." "You?you?" Her eyes blazed helplessly into his and slowly his expression changed. He lowered his eyes, giving her a view of fabulously long, dark lashes. When he looked at her again, there was a soft, dangerous smile playing on his mouth. "Besides, do you not think that the situation might not actually be as bad as you imagine? Hm?" Ellie gasped as he removed one hand from the side of the chair to expertly slide it into the neck of her shirt so that he could cover her bare breast with his hand. She squirmed but already, dismayed, she could feel a treacherous heat begin to rush through her body. When he began to stroke the tight bud of her nipple, all she could do was groan. She needed to clear her head but how, when her body was already slipping down the chair, preparing itself excitedly for a touch she knew she craved?. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Their lovemaking was as gentle as a summer breeze, even though Ellie knew that it had only been initiated by Leo to prove a point, to show her that at least, for a while, if she agreed to live with him as his wife, then she could bank on a fulfilling sex life if nothing else.
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He undid the buttons of her blouse and feathered her breasts with kisses. He cupped them in his hands and rolled his thumbs over her nipples until she was panting and powerless. Then he carefully unzipped her jeans and tugged them down. She did nothing to stop him. She just remained feverishly sprawled in an attitude of shameless abandon, allowing him to divest her of her underwear, to part her legs so that he could gently and lingeringly sample with his exploring tongue the honeyed moistness waiting for him there. Her arms had flopped over the sides of the chair and she watched from under her lashes as he got rid of his own clothes, then she reached up and pulled him toward her so that he could slide deep into her, fill her up, move until her body heaved and shuddered against his. "There is this, my darling," he murmured, after he had carried her to the full-length sofa so that they could lie entwined. My darling? If only? "It's not enough. Sex is never enough when it comes to marriage. Sex?disappears." She gave voice to the question that had been nagging dully at the back of her mind. "What about?Caroline?" "We are finished." "I gathered that?but why? You knew that I would divorce you, that that piece of paper was just a formality!" "That is not why I finished with her." Leo felt himself flush. "Then why?" Ellie pressed. "It was an arrangement," he said shortly. "What kind of an arrangement?" "It suited the both of us at the time. Let us not discuss it." "Why not?" Leo sighed with exasperation but gave in. "It was simply something that seemed a good idea at the time." getting married four years ago, you mean?" "No, not like that." Not like that at all, he thought ruefully. That had been about love, which was why giving this woman up, with or without the added benefit of having a child, was out of the question. He would teach her to love him and they already had a springboard. Physically, they slotted together as neatly as a hand in a glove. "And what are you proposing to me now, Leo, if not another kind of arrangement?" Her voice was sad but gentle. "You are not comparing like with like." "Different situation, admittedly, but the net result is almost the same." And the fact that he could even have contemplated marrying a woman as a sort of business deal left her in no doubt that love and marriage did not go hand in hand for him. But she loved him. How could she live as wife to a man who didn't love her back?
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"Look, Leo," she said gently, "I can't come back with you, and before you jump in and start bellowing at me, I'll tell you straight off that you can spend as much time as you would like with William. I'll never stop you. I know it'll be a bit tricky with you living on the other side of the world, but you must come over here on business fairly often and you can come and see him then, no need to give me any notice at all. And of course, when he gets older, he can come across and see you. He can travel as an unaccompanied minor." "Why won't you become my wife? In the full sense of the word?" Ellie heard the autocratic demand in his question with a sinking heart. Because I love you too much to subject myself to a loveless union. "Because we don't love one another," she said simply. CHAPTER NINETEEN "I could fight you." Ellie knew Leo wouldn't. He would never have dreamed of doing any such thing. "You would lose." "Did you ever?think of me?" The question jumped out at her and knocked her for a loop. Ellie felt a soft flush creeping into her cheeks. Yes, she had thought of him. She hadn't realized how much until now, that she had seen him again. Unconsciously, she had compared every man she had met to him and had found them all wanting. Logic had helped to keep away the demons but emotions, hidden deep down, had never obeyed logic. "Well?yes, of course. I mean, you were?my first lover, Leo. It was only natural?." "But aside from that?" She could feel the conversation getting into tricky waters, waters with enough undercurrents to drag her down. "And then when I got pregnant," she carried on quickly, "I couldn't help but think of you. You were the father of my child. But there was no means of getting in touch with you and besides, I've read enough to know that the last thing most men want is to be encumbered with a baby. Especially you." "Why especially me?" "Because you had your whole career ahead of you. You were bright and talented and wealthy. A baby would have been like a chain round your ankles for a man like you." "And it wasn't for you?" "I?I've never once regretted having William." Because, she now realized, he had always been her constant reminder of the love she had lost. "You have had three years, more, of our son. Do you not think that I deserve the chance to be a father?" He would remain here until the cows came home, drumming every reason he could think of into her head, but she wasn't going to get away from him again. He felt that in his bones, an unshakable truth. "Of course you do! And like I said?" "I could have the job part-time. I know what you said."
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"That's not what I meant?." "And what when you find someone else? Does my part-time role get reduced to nothing? Will my son get used to calling some other man Dad? And what about financial considerations? Do you not think that I might want to support my son? Give him things? Watch him grow?" "Yes, I suppose?." The undercurrents were back again, this time in a different format, and Ellie frowned as she tried to separate the strands of confused thoughts running through her head. "How can I watch my son grow from thousands of miles away, across the Atlantic?" "You don't want me as your wife!" Ellie protested. "You didn't track me down to tell me that you love me and that you still wanted me! You tracked me down to get a divorce so that you could marry someone else!" "That's true," Leo admitted urgently, "but?" "But what? You've only changed your mind because of William!" "I broke it off with Caroline before I knew that William even existed." "Yes, but?" "And why do you think that is?" "Because?" Hope sent up a few tentative shoots, which Ellie stalwartly tried to ignore. "Because?" he prompted softly. "Follow the thought, Ellie, and tell me what you find?." CHAPTER TWENTY Ellie fell silent and watched Leo, not daring to hope. "Why do you think I married you four years ago?" "Because you got carried away with the excitement of the New Year approaching and the excitement of being in Las Vegas and you'd had a little too much to drink?." "It wasn't the first time I had been in Las Vegas," Leo told her, speaking slowly and carefully and taking his time because he was not going to allow pride to alter a word he had to say. "And it certainly was not the first time I had attended an extravagant New Year's Eve celebration. Carry on with your explanation." "You weren't in complete control?neither of us were?." "I was in sufficient control to arrange a limo to take us to get the marriage license and then on to that ridiculous drive-through affair. So go on?." "Why then?" She seemed to be holding her breath in heady expectation of an answer she just knew wasn't going to come. "Do you remember what I told you that night? What I told you on several occasions, in fact, during the course of the time we were together?" "Well?you said that you loved me." Ellie laughed quickly, rushing in to dismiss the possibility that that love still existed, but the gravity of his expression sent all her impulses racing wildly through her.
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"I saw you and you took my breath away. I talked to you and I felt like I had never felt with any other woman in my life before, and there had been many." He slid his fingers through her hair and held them there so that the warmth of his hand pressed against her scalp. "You enchanted me and I fell in love with you. It was no game for me. I married you because I wanted to. Can you imagine how I felt when I woke up to find that you had disappeared? I tried to track you down but all roads led to a brick wall and for the past four years I now see that I was inwardly raging. Caroline was my screwed-up attempt to kill the past and I know that now. When I saw your picture in the newspaper, read your name, knew that at last I could find you, all the old emotions came to the front again, and then I saw you. You still took my breath away. I talked to you and you filled my soul up just like you did all that time ago, swept away all the cynicism that I had built up about the institution of marriage. That's when I knew that I had to break it off with Caroline." Ellie felt as though she might faint at any moment. Was that what it felt like when dreams come true? "I tried to hate you when I realized that your bombshell was far bigger than mine had been, but in the end, all I could think was that I had my wife and a son. That's why I want you to come back with me, Ellie. Because I want you. I want to wake up to your glorious face every morning, I want to have my son with both of us, I want you to have more babies for me?and if you don't love me now, then you can learn to. I can teach you?." There, he had laid his heart on the line and he watched her face anxiously, not quite knowing what he would do if she rejected him again. Then she smiled and her smile said it all. "I've been waiting?." Ellie murmured. "I was waiting all my life to meet you and then I did, and I've spent the past four years in a vacuum, waiting for you to come back, not even realizing it. My darling, I'm so glad you've returned?." "You love me." There was fierce joy in the statement and it intensified when she nodded her head. "My darling," he said shakily, kissing her gently on her mouth, "our lives begin right now?."
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For Love or Money by Liz Bevarly The good news? Dinah won the lottery. The bad news? She needed help collecting her prize. Convincing her sexy neighbor to help, however, could be as good as winning millions! Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| "Congratulations, Ms. Meade. You picked some winning numbers." Dinah's fingers convulsed on the telephone. For once in her life, luck seemed to be on her side. Maybe moving to San Francisco hadn't been such a bad idea, after all. The lottery ticket she was holding in her hand had come to her attention while sorting through all those asyet-unpacked boxes that had been stacked in her spare room since moving from Atlanta three months before. In hindsight, she supposed it would have made sense to call about the tickets before she'd left Georgia ? after all, some of them had been months old when she moved. But it had never really occurred to her that one of them might have been a winning combination. Who ever really thought they'd win the lottery? Still, she must have some deeply buried optimistic streak if she'd packed the tickets along with the other nonessential odds and ends from her kitchen, instead of tossing them out. That same streak must have caused her to call the toll-free number now, to double check ? just in case ? instead of throwing the tickets into the garbage with all the obsolete business cards and expired coupons amid which they'd been mingling. Funny, her being a closet optimist, Dinah thought. Her family did, after all carry the infamous Curse of the Meades. "So how many of the numbers did I get right?" she asked the faceless Georgia Lottery representative on the other end of the line. Her fingers trembled now as she threaded them through her straight, pale blonde bangs. If she'd gotten three of the six, she'd won enough to treat herself to a nice dinner, she thought. That might be nice. She could take Marcus. And if she'd matched four numbers, she might just cover a month's rent, which would be really nice. And if she'd matched five ? which she dared not even wish for, because that would be asking too much ? Dinah could clear a few thousand dollars. Oh, what a luxury that would be. She crossed her fingers as she waited to hear. From nearly a continent away, the woman from the Georgia Lottery told her, "No, Ms. Meade, you don't understand. I mean you picked some winning numbers. All the winning numbers. You've just made yourself a cool five million dollars." Thunk. It took Dinah a moment to realize it was the phone that had made the sound as it hit the floor, and not her head. Though she had landed on her fanny when her knees buckled beneath her. Five million dollars? she repeated to herself. Five million dollars? Five Million Dollars! "Yes, ma'am. Five million dollars." Only when she heard the fuzzy reply did Dinah realize she must have shrieked that last out loud. Even so, the voice reassuring her seemed to be coming from a million miles away. Or, at the very least, three feet away, because that was where the cordless phone had skittered when it slipped from Dinah's fingers.
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Hastily, she scrambled across the kitchen floor on her hands and knees and jerked the phone back up to her ear. "Are you sure?" she asked the woman. She repeated the numbers again for verification. "That's the winning combination," the woman assured her. "We thought you'd never come forward." Dinah recalled her bad habit of buying tickets and magnetting them to the fridge, then forgetting about them. Thank goodness her move had made her check the tickets! "But as long as you're at lottery headquarters in Atlanta by closing on Monday," the woman said, "you'll collect your money with no problem." "Oh, I'll be there, no matter what it ?" Dinah halted mid-vow. Monday. That was only three days away. And Georgia was...well, more than three days away. At least it was if she drove the distance alone by car or took a train. It would be even longer by bus. But those were her only travel options. No way was she getting on an airplane. "I'll be there," she reiterated firmly. She scribbled down the instructions, then hung up the phone. Holy moly. She was a millionaire. Or, at least, she would be. In three days. If she made it back to Georgia in time. And, of course, she would make it back to Georgia in time. She hoped. A millionaire, she thought again, still numb from the news. She had to tell someone. She had to call someone. She had to shout it to the world. She had to ? A familiar sound out in the hallway caught her attention then, and hastily, she unbolted her back door and jerked it open wide. And when she did, her across-the-hall neighbor, Marcus Harrod, jumped about a foot in the air. As he always did when returning home from work, he looked like a walking/talking advertisement from GQ, wearing a flawless charcoal suit, crisp white dress shirt, and expertly knotted and discreetly printed Hermès tie. Dinah bit back a wistful sigh when she noted how perfectly his attire complemented his silky black hair and luminous blue eyes. He smelled marvelous, looked fabulous, made her little heart go pitter-patter, pitterpatter, pit-ter-pat-ter. Too bad he wasn't her type. Or, more correctly, too bad she wasn't his type. Damn. All of the good ones were taken. Or else all the good ones were gay. When he saw that it was Dinah, Marcus fell back against his own door and expelled a gasp of relief. "Jeez, Dinah. I hate it when you do that. You nearly gave me a coronary." "Marcus!" she cried, ignoring his condition. "I have got the most unbelievable news to tell you!" *** "Okay, Dinah, let me get this straight."
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Marcus Harrod tipped the bottle of single-malt Scotch over a cut crystal tumbler, and tried to digest everything his across-the-hall neighbor ? and the object of most of his sexual fantasies these days ? had just told him. But instead of processing her news about winning the lottery, all he could do was think about how incredibly sexy she looked. Even in ragged jeans and slouchy yellow sweatshirt, with her blond hair bound haphazardly atop her head in something vaguely resembling a ponytail. If you disregarded all those straggly pieces framing her face. Although, even those straggly pieces were awfully sexy. Made a man want to lift a hand and skim it oh-so-slowly over her ? "I know it's hard to believe," she said, interrupting what had promised to be a damned nice fantasy. She paced restlessly from one side of his living room to the other, her sock-clad feet silent on the expansive, expensive, Aubusson. "But it's true. It's true!" she cried again, pivoting around to smile at him. "I won the lottery, Marcus! I'm rich! I'm rich! I'm rich!" "You'll be rich," he reminded her. "On Monday." "Right," she agreed, sobering. Some. For a second or two. Then she started bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her smile dazzling. She paced to the other side of the room, perched herself on the edge of an exquisite Chippendale chair for a nanosecond, then shot up and started pacing again. "You have to help me, Marcus," she told him as she passed by him quickly enough to create a breeze. He grinned as he watched her go. He'd never seen so much barely harnessed energy in one place. But then, that was pretty much how Dinah was even when she wasn't winning the lottery. Hell, if she'd just move a little slower, he might be able to figure out what made her tick. Better still, he might be able to figure out why he couldn't stop thinking about her all the time. "I'll help you," he promised. "First by fixing you a double Stoli, straight up. I think you could use it." She spun around with enough force to send a less grounded individual spinning right out of the room. "No, no, no, no, no. Not necessary," she told him. "I'm intoxicated enough as it is." He feigned disappointment. "What? You started happy hour without me? That's not like you, Dinah." She smiled at his mention of their usual Friday evening ritual. Dinah worked at home as a freelance writer, so she invariably heard Marcus return home from his architectural firm everyday. Over the last three months, it had become their custom to spend every Friday after work enjoying cocktails and conversation together. It had become even more customary for the two of them to have dinner together at one or the other's apartment a couple of times a week. They'd struck up a nice friendship within days of her moving in to the building. It was just too damned bad she wasn't interested in him romantically. But she'd never shown any sign that she returned his very profound interest in her, so he hadn't pressed the issue. Not that he could understand for a minute why she wouldn't be interested in him. He'd never had that problem with women before. Ah, well. It wasn't his to question why. But it was his to keep his fantasies about Dinah to himself. "You have to help me, Marcus," she said again, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. Pretty much. He did still kind of wonder what she had on under that sweatshirt. "I'll be glad to," he told her. "What do you want me to do? Water your plants while you're gone?"
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She started bouncing up and down again. "No, I want you to come with me," she said, her brown eyes wide with excitement. The drink he'd been lifting to his mouth stopped just short of completing the action. "Come with you?" he echoed. "Why?" "Because I'm going to need another driver." "What are you talking about?" Marcus asked. "You're planning to drive to Georgia? By Monday?" "If we take turns at the wheel, we can drive straight through. We won't have to stop except for food and restrooms." He eyed her curiously for a moment. "Why would we want to do that, when you can hop on a plane and be there within hours?" Her expression went vaguely horrified. "A plane?" she repeated, voicing the word as if it were something unspeakably vile. "I can't get on a plane. No way." He rolled his eyes. "Oh, no. Don't. Dinah. Don't tell me you're one of those people who's afraid of flying." She made a mild face at him. "Well, of course I'm not afraid of flying. Just how flaky do you think I am?" He sighed in relief. "Good. So what's the problem?" "It's because of the curse," she told him. Marcus was afraid to ask. Nevertheless, "The curse?" he repeated cautiously. Dinah nodded. "Yeah. The curse. The gypsy curse." Dinah gazed out the windshield of Marcus's big SUV, watching the lights of an oncoming Berkeley glitter through the metal girders of the Bay Bridge. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and they'd officially embarked on Marcus and Dinah's Excellent Adventure. It had taken her 45 minutes to convince him to accompany her to Georgia, two hours for them to pack and shower and tie up loose ends and plot their driving strategy, 20 minutes to argue over whose car they would take, and 30 minutes to get out of San Francisco. Now as they sped east, with San Francisco Bay shimmering beneath them like smooth black satin, Dinah felt herself relaxing for the first time since the call from the Georgia Lottery. Until Marcus said, "okay, you promised if I came with you, you'd tell me about this gypsy curse." Oh, yeah. That. Funny how blackmail had a bad habit of backfiring on a person. She sighed heavily. "Well, it's sort of complicated." He chuckled wryly. "Yeah, I bet. Family curses sorta tend to be that way." She nodded. "True." But she said nothing more, hoping he might take the hint and let it go. No such luck.
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"Dinah?" "Hmm?" "The curse?" "Right." She continued to gaze out the window as she spoke, though, because she didn't want to see Marcus's expression as she explained. People who didn't suffer from family curses just never got the whole family curse thing. "It dates back to the seventeenth century," she began. "According to the story, one of my more vicious Meade ancestors ? not that there were a lot of vicious Meade ancestors," she hastened to clarify. "In fact, most of them were totally passive and decent. In fact, the ones who first came to this country in the 1800s were Quakers who ? " "Dinah?" "Hmm?" "The curse?" "Right." She backpedaled and started again. "This ancestor, apparently obsessed with a beautiful, young gypsy girl, kidnapped her and locked her way up in the tower of his castle. And to get even with him ? and to prevent him from committing his nefarious deeds ? her family put a curse on him that would also hex all of his ensuing progeny. "Which, I guess is understandable," she qualified, "all things considered. I mean, if someone locked up a member of my family way, way up in a dark, dank, stinky tower and tried to commit nefarious deeds with them, I'd want to do a lot more than put a curse on him. I'd want to wrap both hands around his throat and ? " "Dinah." "Hmm?" "The curse." "Right. Where was I?" Marcus glanced over at her with narrowed eyes. "The, uh, the curse," he told her. "Right," she said again. "To make a long story short ? " "Please do." " ? what the curse amounts to," she continued, "is that anytime anybody in my family tries to travel higher than a certain height, something nefarious happens to them. In the case of my vicious ancestor, it was spontaneous combustion." Marcus swerved into the shoulder a bit, but recovered admirably. "Spontaneous combustion?" he echoed. Dinah nodded. "Pretty nefarious, huh?"
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"You said it." He glanced over at her again, and the slash of illumination from a bluish-tinted street lamp briefly threw his features into stark contrasts of shadow and light. He had such incredible cheekbones, she noted, not for the first time. And he looked so handsome and dramatic, all dressed in black ? black jeans, black sweater, black leather jacket. Two words, she thought. Yum. Mee. And two more words. Major loss. To the feminine gender, at any rate. Honestly. It sure was a good thing that she was a level-headed woman. Otherwise, she might very well have fallen in love with him by now. And wouldn't that just be about the dumbest thing she'd ever done in her life? Yeah, good thing she was so level-headed. "So how high a height are we talking here?" Marcus asked, stirring her from her musings. "Well, tower-height, obviously," Dinah replied. "Though the castle was up on a big hill, too, so a bit higher than tower height, I guess. It was the only way the gypsy family could keep my ancestor from committing those nefarious deeds. It's also why so many members of my family live at sea level, and why none of us work in tall buildings. If anyone in my family goes too high up, we pay for it. Big time." "How so? Surely someone in your family has tested the curse by now, haven't they? After all, it's been hundreds of years." "Oh, yes. Several people have tested the curse." "And?" "They've all met with nefarious ends." There was a moment of silence from Marcus, then, "What happened to them?" he asked. "Oh, gosh, all kinds of things," Dinah said. "For example, there was my Uncle Sebastian, who tried to climb Mount McKinley." "And what happened to him?" She shrugged. "We think he was carried off by a California Condor. They never found his body. Except for his one shoe," she clarified. "His shoe?" "And his Coors belt buckle." Marcus said nothing in response to that. th
"And then there was my father's cousin, Tilda. She took a job on the 37 floor of a skyscraper once, even though everyone warned her not to." "And, um, what happened to Tilda? Did she disappear, too?" "Well, not physically." Another one of those thoughtful glances from Marcus was followed by his softly muttered, "Um, what does that mean?"
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"Well, Tilda's still around," Dinah said. "Pretty much. Physically, anyway." "Which means?" he asked, clearly with some reluctance. "Well, she spends a lot of her time these days talking to Czar Nicholas." "Ah." "And Winston Churchill." "I see." "And Oliver Cromwell." "I got it, Dinah." "And then there was my great-great grandmother Oneida who ? " "Dinah?" "Hmm?" "I got it." "Oh. Okay." With a sigh of contentment that she and Marcus were well and truly on their way, Dinah settled back in her seat and gazed out the window at the swiftly passing night. And she wondered how much longer 'til they got there. *** A couple of hours later, Marcus was wondering much the same thing...when he wasn't still marveling at what Dinah had told him earlier. A family curse. Why did this not surprise him? Not that he'd ever considered her to be flaky. Well, not too flaky, anyway. Not really. No, he liked to think of Dinah as being...unconventional. Yeah, that was a good word for her. Unconventional and...hot. Yeah, hot was another good word for Dinah Meade. Especially decked out, as she was now, in snug, faded jeans and a cropped red sweater that kept riding up over her torso, every time she twisted in her seat ? which was frequently, because she wasn't the kind of person who liked to sit still. It was even worse when she reached into the back seat for something. And so far on this trip, she'd reached back there for a lot. First for a bottle of water from the cooler, then for a bag of chips from the hamper, then for one of the maps they'd bought when they'd gassed up. And every time she went over that seat, Marcus nearly drove right off the road, because her denim clad rump and her creamy naked torso had been right there for the taking, had he a mind to take them ? which he did ? and the freedom of movement to manage it ? which he didn't. But, gee, they'd have to stop eventually, wouldn't they? In spite of Dinah's cockamamie idea that they'd drive straight through, Marcus couldn't see any harm in stopping briefly at a hotel along the way to get some decent sleep. Or something.
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Yeah, maybe, he thought, this cross-country drive wasn't such a bad idea after all. So, pressing the accelerator just the tiniest bit closer to the floor, he pushed thoughts of business aside, glanced over at his companion and said, "Hey, Dinah. How about reaching back there to get me a bottle of water?" "Sure thing, Marcus." She unhooked her seatbelt and joked, "Don't wreck," as she knelt on the seat and turned backward to accommodate his request. Inescapably, his attention drifted from the road to the nicely rounded bottom that was now right at eye level, and at the tantalizing band of flesh that peeked out between her blue jeans and sweater. And he tried really hard to steer his gaze back to the highway. Unfortunately, his eyes were slow to follow his command, because Dinah chose that moment to shift positions, and the sway of her rump was just too tempting to ignore. By the time Marcus did finally remember to pay attention to what he was doing, it was too late. There, dead center of the highway ? Ooo, bad choice of words, he thought vaguely ? were about a million flashing red and blue lights fixed atop roughly a billion emergency response vehicles. In one rapid, crystal clear instant, Marcus accomplished several things. He reminded himself that Dinah wasn't buckled in. He threw his right arm across the back of her legs in a valiant, if totally futile, effort to protect her. He stomped his foot hard on the brake. And he hoped like hell he could stop in time. Amid the screech of tires, a wildly fish-tailing truck, and the slam of her body into Marcus?s, one thought, and one alone, flashed through Dinah?s brain: I?m going to die. And just when I?ve won five million bucks, too. Boy, it figures. Then she ceased to think at all, because her back was slamming into the dashboard, the SUV was skittering sideways, and the tires were crunching over what sounded very much like death. But, strangely, of all the scary realizations running through Dinah?s cognitive system in that moment, one rose way above all the others: Marcus has his hand on my butt. What the...? Then that thought, too, evaporated. Not because Marcus?s hand moved, but because the SUV stopped. The SUV stopped, but Dinah?s heart kept racing. Which meant, she finally understood, that she was alive. "Um, Marcus?" she finally asked in a very small voice. "Yes, Dinah?" His voice, she noted, was remarkably steady. "What, uh...what exactly just happened?" "Well, Dinah, we, um...we almost died." "That?s what I thought. Marcus?" "Yes, Dinah?" "You can, uh...you can take your hand off my, uh, my, um... You can take your hand off me now." Only then did he seem to realize where she?d landed, but instead of jerking his hand off of her bottom, which was pretty much what Dinah had figured he would do, Marcus only gazed at her blindly for a moment and continued to keep his hand right where it was. Which, Dinah decided vaguely, actually wasn?t such a bad thing. Especially when he opened his hand more fully over her fanny and curled his fingers more intimately against her, sending a shot of white-hot need rocketing through her entire body. Oh, my.
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"Marcus?" she said, her voice trembling. She was stunned by the unmistakable passion and desire that darkened his eyes. But he wasn?t supposed to be feeling passionate or full of desire. Not here, in the middle of I-5 South. Not now, when they?d both just been snatched from the jaws of death. Not with her, someone who had two X chromosomes. Then, suddenly, Dinah understood. They really had just been snatched from the jaws of death. And didn?t she recall something from a college Psych 101 class about people becoming more sexually active after a brush with death, because the sex act was so ultimately life-affirming? Or had she read that in a copy of True Confessions magazine? She always got those two confused. At any rate, that was surely what was at the root of Marcus?s reaction now. He?d just narrowly escaped death. At this point, he?d probably be turned on by anyone who was processing oxygen. And Dinah was most definitely doing that, if her still ragged breathing was any indication. "Are you okay?" he asked, scattering her jumbled thoughts. She nodded, unable to say a word, uncertain what to say, even if she could speak. He inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, and Dinah took advantage of his preoccupation to scramble back into her seat. After that, anything else they might have said ? or done ? was prevented by the arrival of a police officer, tapping at the driver?s side window. With one last fortifying breath, Marcus rolled down the window and pasted on a phony smile. "Is there a problem, officer?" he asked very politely. Dinah turned her attention to the sight ahead, a jack-knifed semi whose trailer had come to rest on its side half in and half out of the highway median. Although the driver appeared to be fine, and was talking with another police officer, the truck had spilled its contents ? which appeared to be, if the smell coming through Marcus?s window was any indication, manure ? across both south-going lanes. It was a real mess, she thought. One that would doubtless take hours to clear away. She studied her watch and thought about her five million dollars. And she wondered what else on this trip could go wrong. *** Shortly after daybreak Saturday morning, Marcus awoke in the passenger seat from a nap that had been anything but restful, just in time to see a sign that read You are now leaving Denby, Arizona. Have a nice day. He snagged the map from the pocket in the door beside him and scanned it until he found Denby, his gaze traveling a lot further west than he?d hoped it would. He shook his head ruefully. They weren?t making good time at all. At this rate, Dinah would be lucky to claim a coat check ticket, if not a lottery jackpot. They were going to have to do something to pick up the speed. "You want to change drivers again?" he asked as he launched himself into a full-body stretch. Or, at least as much of a full-body stretch as the cramped vehicle would allow. He braced his forearms against the ceiling and extended his legs forward as far as he could, then pushed hard. Oh, boy, that felt good. Dinah seemed to be feeling pretty good herself, because when she glanced over at him, her eyes went wide with...something. Something warm. Something wild. Something that looked very much like...appreciation? Well, well, well. Maybe he?d finally discovered the secret to attracting her attention. Take her on a road trip, drive all night and almost get her killed, then, when exhaustion started to kick in, boom, she was his. Okay, so maybe she wasn?t quite his. Not yet, anyway. She was, clearly, exhausted. Faint purple crescents smudged her eyes, and she looked sort of limp all over. Although she, too, had napped briefly during the
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night, he knew she hadn?t actually slept. Despite the fact that they were making lousy time, they really were going to have to stop somewhere before long, to get some proper sleep. Or something. "Maybe when we stop for breakfast we can switch," she said, returning her attention to the road ahead, and Marcus?s attention to the matter at hand. He gazed through the windshield, too, and saw a long, black ribbon of highway bisecting two vast plains of colorless nothingness. "Where?" he asked. "Looks like we?re out in the middle of nowhere." "There was nothing in the last town, but the next one is only about a half hour away. We can find something there." Marcus wondered if he should introduce into the conversation what was no doubt on both their minds, or let them both go on being deluded for a while longer. Ultimately, though, he decided, What the hell, and said, "You realize, of course, that we?re making remarkably bad time." Dinah said nothing, only kept her gaze fixed on the road. "Dinah?" he prodded. She expelled a restless sound. "We can make it up. We still have plenty of time." "We?re going to have to stop at hotel tonight, to get some decent sleep." She shook her head. "That won?t be necessary." "Dinah..." "We?ll make it." "I?m just thinking it might be better if we ? " "We?ll make it, Marcus. We?ll make it." Hoo-kay, he thought, relenting. Score one for delusion. And speaking of delusions... "So tell me some more about this family curse," he said suddenly. Maybe, if nothing else, he could get Dinah to admit that the family curse thing was a lot of hooey. "What about it?" she asked. "You don?t honestly buy into all that hoodoo. Do you? I mean, we could catch a plane at the next big city, and ? " "No." Her reply was swift and adamant. "But this is a new millennium," he reminded her. "And surely there?s some kind of statute of limitations on curses." "Well, I don?t know about a statute of limitations," she conceded, "but, according to family legend, there is one way to break the curse."
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Well, that certainly helped, Marcus thought. "And that would be?" She hesitated a moment. "Supposedly, any Meade who finds true love with someone ? really, truly, wonderfully true love ? then that?s supposed to break the curse for that particular Meade." "True love?" Marcus echoed. "True love," Dinah confirmed. "Well, you know, all things considered, that?s not such a bad way to break a curse." "Oh, sure. Easy for you to say. But where am I supposed to find true love in this day and age?" she demanded. "Nobody finds true love anymore." Oh, now that was a matter of opinion, Marcus thought. He opened his mouth to say just that when Dinah cut him off. "All of the good ones are taken," she told him. "Or else all of the good ones are gay." Marcus narrowed his eyes at her. "You really think so?" "I know so." Well, that didn?t sound very promising. How could Dinah not think he was one of the good ones? ?Cause he sure wasn?t taken. He opened his mouth to say just that, when the SUV cut him off. Because it skittered wildly then, jolting him back to awareness. And the first thing he became aware of was that Dinah was having some major difficulty maneuvering the big SUV. The second thing he became aware of was that it was because they had a flat tire. He gritted his teeth and held on tight as she downshifted, slowed, and gradually pulled the vehicle to the side of the road. And he admired the coolness with which she handled everything. That coolness, however, turned into frozenness the moment the truck came to a complete halt. Because all she did was sit stock still, staring straight ahead, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel with both hands. "Dinah?" he asked softly. "You okay?" No response from the driver, save some erratic breathing. "Dinah?" Marcus tried again. Nothing. He reached across the seat and carefully pried her fingers free, then wove them with his own, only to find that they were as rigid and cold as an icicle. "Dinah," he tried again. "It?s okay. We?re okay. We?ll just have to change the tire, that?s all." Finally, finally, she seemed to realize what had happened. But when she glanced over at Marcus, her eyes were huge and shiny with tears. "We?re not going to make it, are we?" she said. "I might as well just kiss that five million bucks goodbye."
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As was the case with many so areas of Dinah?s life, things looked infinitely better after breakfast. There was just something about eggs over easy and hash browns and bacon that made the world seem like a much more agreeable place. Of course, finding a gas station open so early on a Saturday in such a small, by-the-way town, and replacing Marcus?s spare tire with a new one helped, too. With their stomachs full, their spirits lifted, and their mental attitudes improved, Dinah and Marcus generated some exceedingly good karma. For the rest of the weekend, they made excellent time, with nary an overturned semi, flat tire, or traffic jam in sight. By midnight Sunday, they had crossed into Mississippi and were feeling pretty celebratory. They were also feeling pretty sleepy. "We need to stop for a while, Dinah," Marcus said from the driver?s side. "We need to find a hotel, if just for a few hours. I?m beat." Beat didn?t even begin to cover how she was feeling herself. More than 48 hours had passed since she?d showered or changed her clothes, and she knew she must look as ragged as she felt. In spite of that, she offered halfheartedly, "I?ll take over the driving for a bit." He shook his head. "You?re no better rested than I am." "Sure I am," she countered wearily. "I slept for a while this afternoon." He expelled an incredulous sound. "Yeah, right." "Okay," she conceded, "maybe I didn?t actually sleep, per se, but I did nap for a while." "Uh-huh." "Okay, so maybe it wasn?t napping so much as it was dozing. I did doze. Some." "Mmm-hmm." "Well, maybe it wasn?t a lot of dozing, but I did have a dream," she told him. "Oh, really?" he asked dubiously. "About what?" Actually, Dinah recalled now, it had been a dream about Marcus. And in that dream, Marcus had been doing things with her, to her, that she would just as soon not describe to him in detail right now. Or ever. Her face flamed when she remembered some of the more explicit, more erotic, highlights. Oh, boy, was she glad she wasn?t the kind of woman to fall in love easily. Because if she was, after that dream... Well. Between the passion she?d experienced for him in that dream, and the easy camaraderie she shared with him in real life, Dinah would definitely be over the moon by now where her feelings for Marcus were concerned. "The dream was about, uh...a, um..." She scrambled for some kind of explanation, and blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. "It was about a powerful locomotive speeding through a dark tunnel." Gee, now why would that be the first thing that popped into her head? Dinah wondered. Then she recalled something else from her Psych 101 class ? or True Confessions magazine. Something about how a powerful locomotive speeding through a dark tunnel was symbolic of something... Symbolic of...of...of...
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Uh-oh. "A powerful locomotive speeding through a dark tunnel, huh?" Marcus echoed with a chuckle. "Interesting dream." Boy, you don?t know the half of it. But all Dinah could manage in response was, "Um, yeah. It was. Interesting, I mean." Marcus chuckled some more. "We definitely need to stop and get some sleep. We?re starting to get punchy." Dinah sighed, relenting. He was right. It would be dangerous for them to operate any kind of heavy machinery in their current mental states. Then again, she pondered further, did she really want to check into a motel with Marcus in her own current mental state? Then again, she pondered further still, what difference did it make? He wasn?t going to make a pass at her. And he?d rebuff any pass she might make at him. Not that she had any intention of making a pass at Marcus. In your dreams, Dinah. Well, okay, maybe there. But only there. "I guess you?re right," she finally surrendered. She noted the next mile marker she saw, then pulled out the map and flicked on the overhead light. "We should be hitting a town called Garvey in about 45 minutes. It looks big enough to have at least one decent motel. Maybe if we just check in for a few hours, we won?t lose too much time. We should still make Georgia by late afternoon with no problem." I hope. She wasn?t sure, but she thought Marcus grunted something affirmative in response. They remained silent after that, both of them probably too tired to do much more than concentrate on staying conscious long enough to cover the next 40 miles. Dinah, however, didn?t have to concentrate as hard as Marcus did over there in the driver?s seat, and, inescapably, her mind wandered back to the dream she?d enjoyed that afternoon. Boy, had she enjoyed it. Yepper. Probably way more than she should have. Her mind then wandered back further still, to their near miss on the highway two nights before, when she?d landed in Marcus?s capable hands. Or rather, in his capable hand. Quite literally, in fact. Which, now that she thought about it, might be what had sparked that odd dream. Because in her dream, he?d had his hand on a lot more than her ? But that wasn?t really important, she told herself. What was important was that she needed sleep. Because exhaustion could be the only explanation for why she was thinking the things she was thinking, and feeling the things she was feeling. Exhaustion. Nothing more. Yeah, that?s the ticket. *** Normally, it would have caused Dinah some concern to be alone with a man in a hotel room, wearing nothing but a little white towel. But Marcus was still in the shower, and she was having an awful lot of trouble finding the underwear she was sure she?d packed in her duffel bag. And the man in question was Marcus, who wouldn?t even notice her little white towel, because it was wrapped around ? sort of ? a body that just didn?t do anything for him.
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Would that she could say the same about the little white towel wrapped around ? sort of ? his body when he stepped out of the bathroom then, a body that did, oh...a lot for her. They?d both collapsed onto separate beds immediately upon entering the room three hours ago, and now felt rested enough to continue with their grand adventure. But they?d both wanted ? nay, needed ? showers before continuing, even if it did cost them precious time. They could make it to Georgia by this afternoon, Dinah promised herself. They could. They could. Now, as Marcus stepped out of the bathroom, surrounded by billows of steam and that little scrap of terry cloth, Dinah couldn?t quite quell the spiral of wanting ? and something else, too, something less distinct, but infinitely more troubling ? that wound tighter inside her. His dark hair was wet, slicked straight back from his face, and his cheeks were ruddy from his recent shave. Dark hair covered the ropes of muscle and sinew on his chest, swirling down over a flat torso to disappear into the towel. She watched as he dragged a comb through his hair, biting back a wistful sigh at the way his biceps and triceps, and oh, my goodness, those abs, danced to an erotic tune playing in her head. And she couldn?t halt the blush that crept into her face when his gaze met hers in the mirror, and he caught her ogling him so blatantly. Immediately, he spun around to face her, his own cheeks ruddy, his expression bordering on stunned. Oh, yeah, she?d bet he was stunned. Nothing like having a woman panting after you when all you felt for her was a fond and friendly affection. "Dinah?" he asked, his voice low and husky and very aroused. Honestly, if she hadn?t known better, Dinah would have sworn the man was completely turned on. But, of course, she knew better. There was no way Marcus could be turned on by her. Could he? Before she could ponder that particular quandary, he pitched the comb onto the sink and made his way slowly, deliberately, and oh-so-sexily, across the room. He said nothing as he came, only held her gaze steadily with his own. And when he dropped down to sit on the bed beside her, something made her clutch her towel more resolutely to her chest. "You, uh...you got something on your mind?" he asked softly. "Something maybe I should know?" Then, to her surprise, he lifted a hand and nudged a strand of hair near her face back behind her ear. "Um, no," she lied. "Not really." He nodded slowly, withdrawing his hand, but only to skim the pad of his thumb gingerly along her jaw line. "Funny," he murmured. "?Cause you really look like you have something on your mind that I should know about." Dinah swallowed hard, and when she did, Marcus dropped his gaze, then his hand, to her throat, curving his fingers intimately over her nape. The heat that curled through her was keen and piercing and very demanding. "No," she said again, her voice coming out thready and embarrassingly squeaky. "It?s nothing." "C?mon," he cajoled, stroking his thumb along the column of her throat with a maddening gentleness. "You can tell me."
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Dinah eyed him levelly, her thoughts, assumptions and doubts all colliding at once in her brain. "What are you doing?" she asked quietly, thinking it a very good question. His lips turned up in a very seductive smile. "What? You can?t tell? Maybe I should work a little harder." Oh, my. He started to dip his head to hers, something that scrambled her thoughts completely. "But, Marcus..." she began, before he could follow through with...whatever it was he was planning to do. Though, just a shot in the dark here, she was pretty sure he was going to kiss her. "Hmm?" he said, his mouth hovering a scant inch from hers. "But...but, Marcus..." she tried again. "Yes, Dinah?" "But...but..." "But what?" he asked, his voice a little less seductive now. "But I thought...I thought..." "You thought what?" he asked. "I...I thought you...I thought you were...were..." "You thought I was what?" "Marcus, I thought you were...gay?" *** Gay? Gay? Well, this was news to Marcus. "Gay?" he echoed. "Gay? How the hell could you think I was gay?" She plucked nervously at the blanket beneath her. "Well," she said quietly, "you are a single man living in San Francisco." He studied her blankly for a moment, telling himself that couldn?t possibly be the extent of her assumption. But when she said nothing more, he replied, "Um, yeah. As are thousands of other heterosexual men. What else made you think I?m gay?" "Well," she tried again, "you do dress very nicely." He continued to eye her intently. "And?" "And you always smell so nice," she pointed out. "And?" "You?re an excellent dancer."
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He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dinah, how many more pieces of this stereotype puzzle are we going to add?" "You have the soundtrack for West Side Story,?" she added. "It has that kickass Leonard Bernstein score," he replied. He pointed a finger at her, and stated, quite adamantly, "Hey, that?s the most macho show that ever hit Broadway." "But it is a musical," she reminded him. He sighed heavily. "Well, it is." Marcus muttered an impatient sound. "What else?" he asked wearily. Might as well just get all this out in the open now. "Well, you used the word ?fussy? once." He gaped at her. "I have never used the word ?fussy.?" She nodded. Vehemently. "Oh, yes, you did, too." "When?" "That first day I met you in the lobby, when we were talking about the window treatments." Marcus searched his brain, trying very hard to recall the episode. Not surprisingly, however, he came up completely blank. "Nope. Sorry. Didn?t happen. You must have misunderstood." Boy, was that an understatement. "Well, anyway, you?re much too good to be true," Dinah finally concluded. "Certainly much too good to be heterosexual." Marcus gazed at her for a long, silent moment, wondering just how to proceed. Suddenly, it all made sense, why she?d never returned his interest. And he realized then that he should have tried just a tad bit harder to illustrate that interest. Especially since he was beginning to understand that what he felt for Dinah was a lot more than just interest. He only hoped it wasn?t too late. "Dinah," he finally said softly. "Dearest. I assure you, I am not homosexual." "Oh, please, Marcus, you don?t have to pretend with me. I?m a very open-minded person. In fact ? " She never got to finish what she was going to say, because Marcus took it upon himself to prove his assertion to her the only way he knew how. He kissed her. Soundly. Towels be damned. It was an amazing kiss. That was the first thing Dinah noticed. The second thing she noticed was that her towel was slipping dangerously low. The third thing she noticed was that his towel was slipping low, too. And the fourth thing she noticed... Well, actually, she didn?t notice too much after that.
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Because Marcus deepened the kiss, covering her mouth with his, and tasted her passionately, intimately, thoroughly. He skimmed his fingers lightly along her jaw, brushed his bent knuckles down the side of her neck, dipped his forefinger into the elegant hollow at the base of her throat. Little by little, Dinah was drawn under his spell, and it felt so good to finally be doing something she had wanted to do for a very long while. All this time, she?d been thinking Marcus couldn?t be interested in her, not in the way she was interested in him. All this time, she?d thought it would be pointless to pursue anything with him. All this time she?d been so certain he would never, could never, return her feelings for him. All this time, she?d been wrong. Oh, boy, had she been wrong. And now... Well, now just about anything seemed possible. And now, all those feelings she?d been feeling for him were starting to make sense and ceasing to seem pointless. Heat bubbled up inside her as she lifted a hand to his hair, threading her fingers through the damp, silky tresses. Her touch must have stirred something more insistent in him, because he looped his arm fiercely around her waist and pulled her closer still. Two brief scraps of fabric were all that came between them then. There was nothing more than that to prevent them from doing what they both so obviously wanted to do. Nothing except those two brief scraps of fabric, and ? Five million dollars. "Stop!" she cried, jerking away from him. "We don?t have time for this right now!" Marcus grinned devilishly, reaching for her again. With one swift, deft maneuver, he hauled her back into his arms. "Oh, Dinah. There?s always time for this." He burrowed his head against her neck and dragged his open mouth along her throat, his breath hot and damp and tantalizing against her skin. And Dinah had to admit then that maybe he might have a point... She doubled both fists loosely against his chest and pushed him back. But not too far. "Is it worth sacrificing five million dollars?" she asked pointedly. He thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, actually. As a matter of fact, I think it is." She gaped at him. Well, when he put it like that... "Wow," she whispered reverently. He must be really, really good. His grin turned roguish. "Oh, baby, wow doesn?t even begin to describe what we?re about to do." She wanted so badly to give in to her desires and spend the rest of the night ? hey, the rest of the week ? right there in that hotel room, exploring things with Marcus she had only dreamed about enjoying before. And she came very, very close to doing so. But even without the five million dollars waiting for her in Georgia, things with Marcus were happening much too fast. In a way, she?d just met him. All this time, she?d been thinking he was someone else. It was going to take a while before she could adjust to viewing him in this new, heterosexual light. At least, you know, a couple of hours. "Marcus, we can?t do this right now." He opened his mouth to object, but Dinah cut him off. "There?s more than my lottery jackpot to consider here. There?s...there?s...um..."
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"Yes?" he prodded, dipping his head to nuzzle the sensitive place where her neck joined her shoulder. Oh, that was very, very nice. "There?s...what?" he asked. "Well," she tried again, her resolve ? among other things ? melting. "Let?s see now. There must be something..." He pulled her close again, opening his hand over her back, covering her mouth with his. Oh, that was so good. So right. So very, very... Oh. Dinah curled her fingers over his naked shoulders, his skin feeling like hot satin beneath her fingertips. Then she splayed her other hand open over his heart, finding comfort in the discovery that his pulse was racing as erratically as her own. "We can?t," she said again, albeit reluctantly. "Marcus, please. We can?t. Not now. Not...yet. Please." It was that final word that made Marcus surrender to her insistence. Not that he didn?t think he could make her change her mind if given another, oh, three or four seconds. But Dinah was right. Even without the money waiting for her at the end of their journey, this wasn?t a good idea. Not yet. He cared for Dinah in ways that he?d never cared for another woman. She was funny and smart and cute, and he felt more comfortable around her than he did anyone else he knew. Hell, he might as well just admit it to himself ? he was halfway in love with her. Maybe even all the way in love with her. He could wait a little longer for her to get used to the idea of the two of them together. But not too much longer. Not yet, she?d told him. He could do a lot with Not yet. In 12 hours, if all went well, they ought to be rolling into Atlanta. They had until the lottery headquarters closed at 5:30 to claim her prize. And once that was done, he imagined she was going to feel like celebrating. Celebrating her wealth. Celebrating her financial security. Celebrating the success of her journey. Celebrating this newfound...whatever it was...between them. And if there was one thing Marcus Harrod was very good at, it was celebrating. Especially with Dinah Meade. Not yet, he mused again. He guessed he?d just have to settle for that. For now. *** They were just 10 miles shy of the Georgia border when they stopped for gas. Which was just as well, Dinah thought as they rolled to a stop at one of the pumps, and Marcus turned off the engine. She had to use the ladies? room anyway. Plus, she?d really been craving an Almond Joy for the last hundred miles. The mini-mart was hopping, she noted as she jumped down from the SUV. She and Marcus were going to have a bit of a wait to pay for their gas. Good thing it was still early afternoon. Atlanta was no more than two hours away, which gave them a good two-hour cushion. They had plenty of time to claim her jackpot. She fished her wallet out of her purse and checked the contents, only to discover ? surprise, surprise ? that the cash compartment was empty. Boy, that five million bucks couldn?t come fast enough. Dinah could almost feel the check in her hands ? the smooth, cool paper, all those wonderful zeroes... Oh, this was going to be great. The first thing she would do was treat Marcus to a wildly expensive dinner. And after that... Well. After that, Dinah had no idea what would happen. Then she smiled, recalling their all-too-brief embrace at the hotel during the wee hours of that morning. Well, okay, so maybe she had some idea what would happen. Maybe. Perhaps.
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She couldn?t wait to find out if she was right. Especially since part of what she suspected was going to happen involved a lot more than a physical union. She was reasonably certain that there would be quite an emotional union happening, too. At least, there would be on her part. Because now that she knew Marcus did, in fact, go for estrogen-producing individuals, she could stop denying the fact that she?d been halfway in love with the guy for months. And then, maybe, if all went well, she could stop denying the fact that she?d been halfway in love with him for months, and admit that she was completely in love with him for all time. And then maybe, just maybe, he might come to return her feelings. "Hey, Marcus," she said, nudging aside her thoughts for the moment. "Could you loan me a couple of bucks?" She smiled her most dazzling smile. "You know I?m good for it." He smiled back. "Boy, you kiss a woman once, and what happens? She wants to borrow money from you." Dinah blushed. "Um, I thought we agreed not to talk about that until after I?ve claimed my prize and we can do it without distraction." His smile turned lascivious. "Yeah, and I?m really looking forward to doing it without distraction, too." "Marcus..." He chuckled as he withdrew his wallet from the back pocket of his blue jeans and pitched it to her. "Take what you need. I know where you live." "Thanks," she told him, catching it capably in both hands. "I?ll pay for the gas while I?m inside." "I?ll meet you in there," he offered. "I want to pick up a couple of things, too." Ten minutes later, Dinah ran into him in the candy bar aisle, filling his hands with as many Hershey bars as he could carry. At her laughter, he glanced up, shrugging guiltily. "Hey, I figure we?ll be celebrating in a little while," he said in his defense. "I want to be prepared." "I?ve never seen a man go after chocolate the way you do," she replied. "I knew you were too good to be heterosexual." "Hey, hey, hey," he said indignantly. "I thought we settled that little misconception earlier." "Yeah, well, I?m not quite convinced yet." "Guess I have my work cut out for me, proving it to you." "Guess you do." She nudged his shoulder with hers, then he nudged her back with his, and they continued nudging each other and laughing as they paid for their purchases. Then, as Dinah unwrapped her Almond Joy, Marcus held the door open for her, and she preceded him through it. But she straggled behind, and he quickly took the lead. She was so busy with her task, in fact, that she didn?t pay attention to where she was going. Not until she bumped into Marcus?s back. When she glanced up to find out why he?d stopped, she saw him gaping at something in the distance. And when she trailed her gaze after his, she understood what it was that had made him stop and gape. Except
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that stopping and gaping didn?t quite cover Dinah?s own reaction to the scene. No, this called for considerably more than stopping and gaping. "Oh, my God, Marcus!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Somebody stole the car!" Although Marcus did register Dinah?s yelling, concluding that her decibel level was almost certainly a record-setter for the human voice, he couldn?t quite make himself respond. Surely, he was hallucinating. Surely, his SUV was sitting right where he?d left it only moments ago. It must be. Because he had the keys right there in his ? Ignition. Dammit. He?d left them in the ignition. With all the exhaustion, and all the excitement of being so close to Georgia, and all the relief at surviving the trip, and all the distraction that came with replaying in his head those mind-scrambling, libido-twisting, emotion-tangling kisses he?d shared with Dinah, Marcus just hadn?t been thinking. And now his truck was gone. Then another, much worse, thought struck him. "Dinah," he said. Reining in his panic, he turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. "The lottery ticket," he added. "Dinah, where?s the lottery ticket?" For one terrifying moment, he thought she was going to tell him that it had gone the way of the stolen SUV. Then she slapped a hand against the purse hanging at her side and expelled a gasp of relief. "Here," she said. "It?s here in my wallet." "Oh, thank God." Their mutual relief was short-lived, however. "Marcus," she said softly, "what are we going to do? Somebody stole the car." He inhaled a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "First, we?re going to call the police." "But ? " "Then we?ll find a way to get to Atlanta." "But ? " "We still have plenty of time, Dinah." "We have less than four hours, Marcus." "Which is plenty of time," he insisted. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, but the gesture wasn?t enough to stop the eruption of two fat tears that squeezed through, tumbling down her cheeks in twin streams. "Oh, Dinah," he said, gathering her into his arms. "It?ll be okay, I promise. We haven?t come all this way just to be foiled at the last minute. We?ll make it." She burrowed her head into his chest and looped her arms around his waist. "We were so close," she mumbled against his sweater. "So close."
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"We?re still close," he assured her. "We?re less than a hundred miles from Atlanta. And hell, if we have to run that last hundred miles, we will." "We?re not going to make it," she said again. "Oh, yes, we are, too," he immediately countered. "We?ll make it by five-thirty. I promise you, Dinah. I promise you." *** The state troopers were completely sympathetic to their plight, and, once they understood the situation, hurried through their report as quickly as they could. They even offered Dinah and Marcus a ride, something that went a long way toward restoring her faith in humanity. Until the troopers pulled their car into the grassy median just before reaching the state line and told them to get out. "What?" Dinah asked, outraged. But she got out of the car as instructed. She always did buckle to authority. Even when five million dollars was at stake. Dammit. "Sorry, ma?am," the trooper told her through the driver?s side window. "But we can?t take the car across the state line." Dinah narrowed her eyes at the Alabama trooper, her thoughts racing. They?d finally made it to within mere feet of Georgia, but Atlanta was still a good 75 miles away. And they only had two hours left until the deadline. "But we still have to get to Atlanta," she objected. The trooper shrugged ruefully. "Not our jurisdiction." She thought for a moment. "Are you telling me that if you were chasing some evil law-breaker, you wouldn?t follow him into the next state because it would be out of your jurisdiction?" "Well, that would depend on the circumstances," he conceded. She thought for a moment more. "So, like, if I slapped you really hard right now and started running, then you?d ? " "Dinah." The admonition came not from the trooper, but from Marcus. When she turned to look at him, he had narrowed his own gaze, and set his jaw rather forcefully. "Don?t. Even. Think about it," he told her. She blew out an impatient breath. "I?m just exploring my options, that?s all." The trooper, thankfully, didn?t seem offended. In fact, he smiled. "I know you?re in a tight fix," he said. "But I called in a little help from one of my Georgia colleagues. It?s his day off, but he?s agreed to lend a hand." No sooner were the words out of the trooper?s mouth than Dinah registered the sound of a siren. It was quickly punctuated by the arrival of a Georgia state trooper?s car, with trooper at the wheel, which pulled to a stop in the median no more than 30 feet away.
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"This fella here?ll get you where you need to go," the Alabama trooper told her. "And if I know him ? which, of course, I do ? he?ll get you there with time to spare." He lifted a finger to the brim of his Smokey-the-bear hat. "Y?all have a nice day," he concluded. Dinah wanted to hug the guy, but she was afraid there might be some kind of civic ordinance against it. So she settled for saying, "Be on the lookout for a big, fat check made out to the Policeman?s Ball." He chuckled. "Well, now, we don?t really have a Policeman?s Ball. But if you want to contribute something to the children?s athletic fund, we?d be much obliged." "Consider it done," she told him. She turned to the Georgia trooper who had left his car in Georgia and joined them in Alabama. "And if you can get me to Atlanta by five-thirty, I?ll do the same for the great state of Georgia." The other trooper smiled. "Your chariot awaits." *** Dinah stretched out on the big king-sized bed in her room at the Four Seasons Hotel Atlanta, and expelled a very long, very contented sigh. Never in her life had she enjoyed such sumptuous surroundings. Whoever said money couldn?t buy happiness simply did not know where to shop. But Dinah sure did. In fact, she and Marcus had spent the better part of the evening ? after their wildly expensive dinner ? shopping to replenish their stolen supplies. Of course, seeing as how she was worth millions of dollars more now than she?d been a few hours earlier, those supplies were infinitely nicer than the ones that had accompanied them from San Francisco. For instance, Dinah had never realized just how soft and wonderful butter-yellow silk pajamas could feel against a person?s recently bubble-bathed skin. Of course, not so deep down, she knew it wasn?t the money that had brought her the happiness she felt right now. No, it was the sight of Marcus, in his own silk pajamas ? sapphire blue in his case, and he only wore the bottoms ? that caused pleasure to purl through her. And it was the knowledge that she loved him so ? and that he loved her in return ? that inspired all the joy, all the bliss, all the rapture. It was love that brought happiness, not money. Though she?d be a fool if she didn?t admit that the money was pretty swell, too. "Thank you," Marcus said into the telephone receiver he had cradled between his ear and ? deliciously naked ? shoulder. "We appreciate it. Yes, we?ll be there to pick it up tomorrow afternoon." The Alabama troopers had found his SUV abandoned a few miles from the service station, the victim, apparently, of a trio of teenagers out to commit their first crime. They?d quickly reconsidered and dumped the vehicle, completely intact, by the side of the road. It was yet another example of Dinah?s exceedingly good fortune "Finally," she said as Marcus settled the phone into the receiver. "Now you can call room service." She scooped up the piece of paper lying beside her on the bed. "Here. I?ve very conveniently made you a list." Marcus grinned as he took it from her and scanned it. "Gee, do you think a magnum of Perrier-Jouet champagne will be enough?" "It?s a start," she told him. "Well, it will go so nicely with the smoked salmon and caviar and selection of cheeses." "I thought so, too."
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"But I think we should go for the two pound box of Godiva," he told her. "One pound isn?t enough for a celebration like this." "Mm," she agreed. "I guess you?re right." He made the required call, then joined her on the bed, stretching out alongside her, pulling her close. He was warm and rosy from his recent shower, redolent of the spicy scents of soap and man. She couldn?t resist snuggling against him, didn?t bother to quell the purr of satisfaction that wandered up from deep inside her. Oh, boy, was life good. "So, Dinah," Marcus said softly as he nuzzled the side of her throat. "What are you going to do with all that money?" She curled her arms around his neck and pulled him close. "Pursue a dream," she told him without hesitation. "Would it, by any chance, be that dream you had in the car yesterday?" he asked hopefully. "The one with the speeding locomotive rushing through a dark tunnel?" She laughed. "Well, maybe eventually," she admitted. "But the one I?m talking about is the one I?ve secreted away in my heart for a long time now." He pulled away a little, just enough so that he could gaze down into her face, his blue eyes dreamy and happy. "Is it one I know about?" She shook her head, but smiled. "It?s one I?ve never told anyone about, because it seemed so impossible to make come true. Until now." "But now that you know I?m heterosexual, you?re going to go after it?" he asked, even more hopefully than before. She hesitated only a moment before revealing what she?d never revealed to anyone. And somehow, having Marcus be the first was very appropriate. "I want to write the Great American Novel," she told him. "I?ve never been able to find the time to do it before, but now I can. And that?s what I?m going to do. Besides," she hurried on when she saw his smile of approval, "there?s more than my discovery of your sexuality that?s making me go after you." "Oh?" he asked, more hopefully than ever. She nodded. "There?s the small matter of me being crazy in love with you." His smile then went absolutely incandescent. "Gee, that?s going to wreak havoc with the ol? Meade curse, isn?t it?" She chuckled low. "Why do you think I insisted on having dinner at the Sun Dial Restaurant, hmm?" "Seventy-two stories above the city?" he asked mildly. "That did sort of surprise me, when you suggested it." "Did it?" "Well, no, not really. Because by then, I knew you?d found true love and therefore broken the curse." This time Dinah was the one to smile. "How did you know that?" she asked.
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He curled his fingers around her nape and dipped his forehead to hers. "I know because I feel it, too," he said softly. "I love you, Dinah. Truly." "And I love you, Marcus. Truly." For a moment, neither of them said a word, only lay side by side, cuddling, snuggling and feeling really, really happy. Then, very softly, Marcus said, "Dinah, you need to remember something very important about people who get whatever they want in life." She sighed with much contentment. "What?s that?" He pressed a kiss to her neck, her jaw, her cheek, her mouth, then pulled back to gaze down into her face again. He really was incredibly handsome, she thought. Sexy. Sweet. Funny. Heterosexual. Would her good luck never end? "Usually," he told her, brushing his lips lightly over hers, "they live happily ever after." Dinah grinned happily as she sank back into the lush pillows behind her, bringing Marcus down for the ride. "Oh, my," she said softly as she threaded her fingers through his hair. "Then I guess that?s exactly what will happen to us."
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DR PROTECTOR by Jessica Andersen Returning to her lab late one night to tie up a loose ends for her paranoid boss, Dr. Kelsey Sparks surprises an intruder — her ex-husband…who works for the competition! Dr. Luke Sparks denies he's trying to steal Kelsey's discoveries — he thinks her employer, Dr. Fong, is up to no good. And he can prove it…if only Kelsey will give him a chance. But Luke has another motive for returning to Boston: to win Kelsey back…
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE "Hello? Dave? BK?" Kelsey Sparks leaned over the security desk at Boston General Hospital's Developmental Research Building and told herself she wasn't creeped out by the empty lobby. "Hey, you guys. Do you want me to sign in or what?" Her voice echoed and she shivered even though she knew her discomfort was foolish. The late night walk through Chinatown had her jumping at shadows; that was all. Nobody had followed her. The shadows were just shadows, the footsteps all in her mind. "Get a grip, Kels," she muttered, tightening her grip on her handbag. "On Monday Dr. Fong will make the announcement, and all this secretive stuff will be over. It'll be time to pop the champagne." And drink it alone. Damn it. She raised her voice. "Hello? Guys?" Finally, a dark head popped through a nearby door. A big grin lit BK's narrow, twenty-something face. "Hey, Dr. Sparks! There's two out in the bottom of the seventh and runners at the corners. Want to join us?" A low hum of male voices told her there was already a crowd in the security break room watching the game. She shook her head. "No thanks, BK. I'm headed upstairs for a few minutes." She made a face. "I forgot to lock up the lab notebooks before I left for the night." The security guard, who was working his way through pre-med at a nearby university, grinned as a cheer went up behind him. "And Dr. Fong will go ape if he comes in tomorrow and finds out." "Dr. Fong is a brilliant clinical researcher," Kelsey replied loyally, though "ape" was a pretty good description of both Fong's reaction and his physical appearance. However, the brilliant researcher and his less brilliant but hard working second-in-command, namely her, stood to make a bloody fortune when the results of their new anti-aging drug went public and the deal with Pentium Pharmaceuticals was signed. Sure, Boston General would take a hefty cut of the money, but what was left over would put Kelsey well on her way to buying that sweet little house on Beacon Hill and letting her make some much needed changes in her life. Like getting one. BK arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, Fong's smart. But admit it; the guy's a little kooky." He twirled a finger near one ear. She laughed. "I take the Fifth." But the quick conversation had driven the shadows of Chinatown back where they belonged. In her imagination. She adjusted her purse where she wore it bandolier-style across her body. "See you in a few minutes." She headed for the elevators, calling over her shoulder, "And
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don't let Dr. Fong catch you watching baseball when you're supposed to be at your post. He'll go ape!"BK's chuckle followed her onto the elevator, but the light mood didn't last, because the moment Kelsey punched in her security code and stepped through the airtight doors of the fourth floor, she knew something was wrong in the lab. Goosebumps prickled her arms. The very air seemed to ripple in warning. And in the dim lab corridor, lit only by the exit signs and the LED lights of an army of equipment, she saw a stealthy slide of motion. Someone was in the lab! She froze, hoping the intruder hadn't seen her. Hoping he couldn't hear her heartbeat, which was suddenly thundering in her ears. Go back downstairs, she thought. Get BK and Dave! But she couldn't do that. The intruder might escape. She glanced at the red security button beside the door. The whole lab was wired with them — a testament to Dr. Fong's paranoia. Except this was no paranoia; this was real. But she couldn't push the panic button. Not until she was sure the lab notebooks were safe. She had left them out. It would be her head, and probably her job and her slice of the Pentium Pharmaceuticals money, if anything happened to those results. Damn it. Taking a deep breath, Kelsey slid along the wall away from where she'd seen the shadow. The lab floor was an interconnecting maze of corridors and clean rooms, but if she could just get to — A rush of air from the open door to her right was scant warning. She spun toward it, but too late. Strong male arms grabbed her from behind, clamping across her ribs and pinning her arms to her sides. Panic! Kelsey screamed and thrashed against his hold. She kicked back hard and heard her attacker grunt when her sensible heel connected with his shin. Her flailing hand touched the wall and she slapped blindly for the red panic button, which would send a silent signal downstairs. Dave, BK, help! "God damn it, hold still!" The deep, familiar voice froze her fear in an instant, and then melted it away in the warm wash of his breath along the sensitive spot beneath her jaw. Luke? His hold gentled and she shoved away, turned and faced him, fists clenched. "Damn it, Luke. What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Europe. And how the hell did you get past the coded lock?" Her heart clogged her throat, blocking the questions she really wanted to ask. Why did you leave? Why are you back? In the dim light she couldn't see the green of his eyes. His expression was familiar, yet not. Harsher than she remembered, and edged with new lines. He tilted his head in a half shrug. "I guessed your code, Kels. You've always used the birthdays of the people you love." Dawn. The name punched through her like pain. Kelsey held up her hand and backed away from Luke just as the elevators opened and the guards charged out, batons at the ready. "Freeze! Hands where I can see them! Up against the wall…now!" Dave barked, his twenty-plus years as a beat cop lending strength to the commands. BK slapped on the lights, casting the situation into harsh, fluorescent reality. But Luke didn't flinch. He stared straight at Kelsey, green eyes as hard as they'd been the day he'd left her nearly a year earlier. As uncompromising. "You're in danger, Kels. I came to warn you. Fong's wonder drug is a fake, and in three days you're going to be caught in the crossfire." BK lifted an eyebrow. "You know this guy, Dr. Sparks?"
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"He works for the competition," she answered, irritated when she had to force the words past a tightness in her throat. She hated that her heart beat double-time at the sight of Luke's familiar too-long brown hair and the strong, tanned forearms that showed beneath the rolled-up cuffs of a light plaid work shirt. His jeans were snug and worn, and it was hard to believe anything false could come from a man who was part Paul Bunyan, part college professor. She'd fallen for his oh-so-sincere act once before. It wouldn't happen again. No matter that the aching hole in her gut didn't seem so empty now...it wouldn't happen again. She lifted her chin and repeated, "He's the competition. He works for Cartier, and they're three months behind us in getting this drug to market. They'll do anything to slow us down." BK scowled. "Do you want us to call Dr. Fong? Or the cops?" It was tempting. Very tempting. But after a moment's hesitation, Kelsey sighed and shook her head. "No. Get him out of here, and don't let him in again. I'll tell Dr. Fong about this myself." She glared at Luke. "And I'm filing a complaint with your bosses." His eyes darkened. "I'm not trying to scoop your discovery, Kels. I'm trying to protect you." "Shut up and get moving." BK poked Luke in the ribs with his baton. As the security guards pushed him out, Luke leaned back and pinned Kelsey with a glare. "You're making a big mistake, Kels." He stepped into the elevator, leaving her alone in the lab with only an echo of energy to mark his presence. That, and a fine tremble that worked its way through her body when she said to the emptiness, "No, Luke. Marrying you was a big mistake. This —" she glanced around the lab and absorbed the hum of the waiting machines "— this can't be a mistake. This is my life." It wasn't until she reached her lab bench that it all came into focus. Shock and a sense of terrible inevitability worked their way through her as she touched the empty surface of the desk. "Damn it, Luke." Her lab notebooks were gone. CHAPTER TWO "Damn it, Luke, open up! I know you're in there, and I know you stole my notebooks out of the lab, you scheming son of a —" The furious buzzing of the doorbell drowned out the rest of the words. Luke paused at the door to the Boston town house he and Kelsey had once shared and blew out a breath. He was a doctor. A respected scientist with one of the leading drug companies in the world. He could handle an irate brunette, even if she was his ex-wife. Marrying you was a big mistake, Kelsey had said when she'd had him kicked out of Dr. Fong's lab over at Boston General earlier that night. But that wasn't true. The mistake had been his. He'd left her alone when she needed him. Well, not this time. "Luke, let me in right now, or I'll —" He swung open the door, only half-prepared for the desperate kick of his heart when he saw her standing outside. In the eleven months he'd been gone, he hadn't managed to forget the way she used to purr his name at the back of her throat when they'd made love or the joy in her voice when she'd told him she was pregnant. But
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by the same token, he also hadn't forgotten the way she'd turned away from him in the hospital bed. The way she'd told him to leave. And the fact that he'd gone when he should have stayed. Scowling, Luke stepped back and waved her into the town house, which he'd reopened just that day. "Kelsey. We need to talk." "You bet we need to talk." Her brown eyes snapped with temper and her dark hair, shorter than he remembered it, flared around her head as she stormed into the main room with its high, airy arches and natural wood. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Luke? And why aren't you still in Europe on your precious fellowship with Cartier?" Her voice might have broken on the last question, but Luke decided it was his imagination. He'd told himself a thousand times that if she missed him, she would've answered at least one of his letters. He ignored her questions and waved her to the fat club chair they'd picked out together. "You're in danger, Kels. Fong's new drug is a dud." She remained standing and clenched her fists at her sides. Her voice rose. "Are you accusing me of fudging my results? Because let me tell you —" "Of course I'm not accusing you. I know you better than that." Luke raked a hand through his hair and walked over. He leaned close to her and felt a pang when she leaned away. "You're the most honest person I've ever known. No, the drug works fine in the lab experiments. But the clinical trials…" He shook his head. "There are some really, really ugly side effects." "Bull! You're just saying that because your team is three months behind us in developing it. We've dealt with the problems and we're ready to go to the next phase!" She strode toward him until they were nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye. Close enough to fight. Close enough to kiss. Luke felt the realization race through his body even as he saw the knowledge dawn in her eyes. Lust had always been easy for them. It was the other stuff, like trust and dependence, that had been hard. Knowing as much, Luke stepped away and held up both hands. "Rumor has it some of the study subjects are being paid off to not report their symptoms." "Rumor, hah!" she spat, crossing her arms and glaring. "More like libel! Don't think I'm going to let you mess with our announcement. We're going to publish our findings, sign the deal with Pentium, and voilà!" She snapped her fingers. "Our future is assured." Her words were pure bravado, but Luke saw a shadow of suspicion in the back of her eyes, and he pressed forward. "Dr. Fong's future is assured, you mean. Fifteen minutes after the money's in the bank, Fong will be on a plane to somewhere far away, and you'll be stuck here facing the blame when it comes out that half the results with your name on them are false." She paled and fell back a step. "That's baloney." Her tone wavered, then solidified. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Dr. Fong wouldn't do any such thing. You're making this up to buy your team time." "The hell I am!" Luke advanced on her, half tempted to grab her soft white blouse and shake some sense into her. "I don't give a fig about the company or the drug at this moment. It's you I'm worried about!" She stared at him for a beat before she drew herself up and folded her arms tighter across her chest. "Don't worry about me, Luke. I'm fine. In fact, I'm better than fine. I'm wonderful, and I have been ever since you left me!" "I didn't leave you!" he snapped. "As I remember it, you divorced me." "Because you left me in the hospital and took an eighteen-month fellowship in another country."
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"Damn it!" Luke scrubbed a hand through his hair. How had the conversation gotten so out of hand so quickly? "You told me to go." "You should have stayed." The sudden sheen of tears in her eyes was a punch to his gut. He turned away. "I know." Surprise tinged her expression, but she said nothing. After a moment, Luke sighed. It was too little, too late. But if it was too late for him and Kelsey, it wasn't too late for him to save her from her boss's dishonest plans. Carefully staying half a room away from her, he spread his hands. "Kelsey, please —" "Where are my notebooks?" she interrupted in a choked voice. "Give them to me, and then get the hell out of my life, Luke. I don't need you anymore." The words sliced through him, leaving him raw and bleeding, but he tried not to let it show. Tried not to let it hurt. He took a step toward her. "I need five minutes in the lab to prove it to you, Kels. Surely you can give me that much?" She held out a hand. "The notebooks…or I call the cops." "You won't do that, Kels." When her set expression told him otherwise, Luke fell back a pace. "Your books are still in the lab. I hid them so you'd come looking for me. I wanted a chance to explain that —" "Where in the lab?" She was already halfway to the door. Luke took a breath. "I'll show you." When she turned on him with a snarl, he met it with one of his own. "I said I'll show you." He softened his tone. "Just give me five minutes in Fong's office, Kels. I'll prove that he's faking the test results. I swear it." "I'm not interested in your oath or in your proof." "Too bad, because I'm not telling you where the notebooks are without it." Luke saw her weigh her options. She could call the cops on him, but history — and dare he hope old affection? — wouldn't let her. She could return to the lab and search for the notebooks herself, or — "Fine. I'll give you five minutes." She stormed out the door before he could open it for her. He followed and locked up, then turned to find her at the curb looking futilely for a taxi. He walked up behind her. "It would be faster to take the bike." She stiffened and stepped away. Her eyes darted to the overhang beneath the porch, where he'd chained the motorcycle they'd once shared so many rides on. The turquoise-and-white helmet he'd given her on their six-month anniversary was neatly strapped to the back. "You take the bike." She spun away from him and started walking into the night. "I'll find a cab." Luke wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or not. Two days ago, when he'd first learned of Fong's deception and the danger to Kelsey, he'd been forced to move up the plans he'd made to win her back. He'd thought he was prepared to see her again. He'd been wrong. He caught up to her at the crossroads, flagged a passing taxi and held the door open for her. She didn't protest when he slid in beside her and told the driver to take them to Boston General Hospital.
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She merely sat back as far from him as she could get in the small space and said, "You have five minutes, Luke, not one minute more." "Five minutes," he agreed, hoping it would be enough. It had to be enough. CHAPTER THREE The cabbie must have sensed the tension between his passengers, because he delivered Kelsey and Luke to Boston General Hospital in record time. She let Luke pay — the trip was his idea, after all — and headed straight for the elevators. She didn't bother to wake BK. The security guard was sleeping peacefully across one of his textbooks, and nobody needed to know that she and Luke were searching Dr. Fong's lab in the middle of the night. Kelsey couldn't even believe she had agreed to bring Luke with her — he was the competition, for heaven's sake. But this was Luke, she acknowledged with a heavy heart. He'd always known how to talk her into doing things she didn't want to do — like trust him… And look where that had gotten her. Annoyed, she scowled at him across the elevator and reminded him, "Five minutes." He had five minutes to prove that Dr. Fong was setting her up to take the fall when their miracle anti-aging drug failed. He nodded. "Five minutes." He lifted his hand as though to run it through his already-tousled brown hair, then hesitated and let his hand fall. It was, Kelsey thought with surprise, the first truly nervous gesture she'd seen from him in all the time they'd known each other. For some reason, the realization wasn't a comfort. Then again, she hadn't been comfortable since earlier that evening when she'd found Luke in Fong's lab. Luke, who was supposed to be in Europe, not Boston. Luke, who hadn't come back for her, but had come back to interfere with the multimillion-dollar Pentium Pharmaceuticals deal that was set for Monday. Damn him. It wasn't enough that he'd broken her heart, now he had to come back just long enough to ruin her new life. Then he'd be gone again, no doubt. More on edge than she'd been earlier in the evening, Kelsey keyed them into the main lab lobby and tried not to remember that her security code was the birthday of their daughter, Dawn . The day the little girl had been born prematurely. The day she'd died. Resolutely, Kelsey tried not to think that Luke had remembered the date and used it to break into the lab. He'd remembered. What did that mean? Nothing, she told herself. It meant nothing. Annoyed anew, she glared at her watch, seeing the digits glow in the dimness of the unlit lab. "Your five minutes start now."
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But instead of scrambling in search of his proof, Luke turned to face her and was suddenly too near to ignore. He was so close she could see the pulse beating at his throat, so close she could smell the achingly familiar scent that reached out to envelop her in memories and regret. "Kels —" he said softly. He lifted a hand and touched her cheek gently. "I just want you to know that —" "What in god's name is going on here?" There was a loud bang, and the lab lights blazed on. Kelsey stumbled away from Luke and turned toward the voice, surprise and embarrassment bringing hot color to her face. "Dr. Fong, I can explain! I was —" She broke off, shocked fear rooting her in place at the sight of the gun in her boss's hand. Fong gestured with the gun. "Yes, Dr. Sparks? You were saying?" Kelsey said nothing as she grappled with the sudden realization that everything Luke had told her was true. Fong didn't care about her, and he didn't care about the patients. She had trusted him, and now he was setting her up to take the fall. Luke stepped up beside her. "Is this your boss, honey?" His voice was friendly, his eyes anything but. "We didn't mean to disturb you, sir, but I insisted on seeing where Kelsey works." As an excuse it wasn't bad — except that it was close to one in the morning. Fong sneered. "Nice try, Dr. Sparks." He laughed at the surprise on Kelsey's face. "What, you didn't think I knew your ex-husband worked for Cartier Drugs? Spare me, Kelsey. I am a thorough man. When I realized some of the study subjects had been talking to Cartier…well, let's just say I've been expecting you, Dr. Sparks." Fong's gun never wavered. It remained pointed at Kelsey's heart. When she moved, it moved. She could feel Luke vibrate with fury at her side. Afraid that he would try something stupid, she fumbled for his hand and was surprised to find that it eased her own tremors when he squeezed back. "Dr. Fong," she began, "there's no need for drama. Luke doesn't mean any harm, and Monday's press conference will go off without a hitch, just as we've planned." "Yes, it will," Fong agreed. "Because you two won't be there." He jerked his chin toward an intersecting hallway. "Second door on the left, and no funny business. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to make sure you stay put until after the big announcement." Second door on the left? Kelsey balked. The empty climate-controlled room was fitted with an iron-tight mechanical lock, as were most of Fong's doors. They would be trapped, with no hope of escape except… Except for the failsafe override codes that had been programmed to keep absentminded researchers from locking themselves in. Fong wasn't in the lab much. He might not remember the overrides. Fong jabbed the gun toward her. "Go on. Move." Kelsey kept a firm grip on Luke's hand, willing him not to try any stupid heroics. They could regroup in the cold room and make a plan. Fong could not be allowed to sign the Pentium deal and disappear. "You're not going to get away with this, Fong," Luke grated as he followed her inside their temporary prison. "I just did, Sparks." With a jaunty wave of the gun, Fong slammed the airtight door. A moment later, Kelsey heard the mechanical hum of the latches being engaged, and the overhead lights went out, leaving them in darkness, save for the illumination that came through the single window in the door.
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Luke's voice came out of the dimness. "Damn it, we're trapped." Kelsey felt him let go of her hand and was absurdly emptied by the lack of contact. She kept her attention focused on the window, watching for her boss. "I don't think so. We'll need to wait until Fong is gone, but then I think I can get us out of here. There's an override." "Ah, good." Luke's approval warmed her, though Kelsey knew she shouldn't care what he thought anymore. "That's why you didn't struggle much." "That, and because he had a gun." She still couldn't believe it. In the space of a night, her ex-husband had reappeared, her boss had turned out to be a villain, her slice of the Pentium Pharmaceutical money had disappeared into thin air and now… Now, she had nothing. Kelsey heard Luke prowling the confines of the small, dim room and knew what he would find. Not much. There were a few boxes of petri dishes under the waist-high counter. A small ladder leaned against one corner for when she needed to store samples on the highest shelves. And a single wool blanket was folded below the ladder. "What's with the blanket?" Luke asked, as though he'd followed her thought process exactly. "We used this as a cold room." He cursed. "How cold does it get?" "Minus twenty, but…" Kelsey paused. "You don't think Dr. Fong would —" As though summoned by the mention, the scientist's shadow moved past the window. A moment later, Kelsey's stomach dropped when she heard the familiar churning boom of the air ducts realigning themselves to begin refrigerating the room. "He would," Luke confirmed unnecessarily. "Bastard." Fong looked through the window for a moment, a hard, evil smile turning up the corners of his mouth, then he sketched a wave and was gone. The lights in the main lab went out. The room already felt colder. "I'd be really worried right now if I didn't know about the override," Kelsey said as she moved over to the interior lock keypad. "I don't think it's possible to jam the failsafe codes." Please don't let it be possible. She tried not to let her fingers tremble. Luke pressed his face to the window. "Then get us the hell out of here. When I get my hands on that bastard…" "Yeah. Me, too." Kelsey keyed in her override code with fingers that were already feeling cold and numb, though she knew it was in her mind. The room was barely cool. She punched in the last number. The lock buzzed but didn't open. The keypad glowed red. Code rejected. Kelsey's stomach knotted, then dropped to her toes. She glanced at Luke and saw the knowledge reflected in his eyes. Fong had changed the codes. They were trapped.
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CHAPTER FOUR Luke wrapped the thin wool blanket around Kelsey's shoulders and hugged her tight. She didn't push him away, their problems momentarily forgotten in the enormity of what had just happened. They were trapped in an airtight cold room until Monday. They would be dead long before then. The silence was broken only by the rattle of the huge commercial blowers. He tightened his arms around her and wished to hell he'd never had the bright idea of breaking into Fong's lab in the first place. Protecting Kelsey. Hell. He might just have gotten them both killed. "I don't suppose there's a weekend shift that will find us in here?" he wondered aloud, not having much hope of it. Kelsey shook her head, and her thick dark hair tickled his chin like it had so many times before — back when they'd been married. "No. Dr. Fong and I are the only ones who work in this lab. He's obsessed with security…" she trailed off into the clanking silence, then sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Luke. It's my fault we came back here tonight. My fault we're trapped in the lab's cold room. My fault that…" She trailed off again, and this time he half turned her in his arms and tipped her chin up until their eyes met. "Hey," he said softly, "we wouldn't have needed to be here if I hadn't broken into your lab in the first place. It's my fault." A sad, private smile touched her lips. "It's both our faults, then. Mine for not trusting you, and yours for…" He filled in the blank. "My fault for not giving you a better reason to trust me." He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. "I'm sorry." And they both knew he wasn't apologizing for what had happened in the lab. Her eyes clouded and she pushed away from him. She walked to the far side of the cold room, trailing the blanket like a lost child. "Why did you come back here, Luke? It wasn't just because of the drug, was it?" "Yes." He stood. "Well, no. I came back now because of the rumors, but I'd planned on coming back all along." He took a step toward her, and was surprised when she held her ground in an obvious challenge. "Why?" It seemed he wasn't the only one who'd gotten tougher over the past year. He looked down and was caught in her too-familiar, not-familiar-enough brown eyes, in the sorrow at the backs of them and the go-to-hell in the front. The cold air swirling around them felt like loneliness. "Because I was wrong to take that fellowship overseas after you miscarried our daughter. I shouldn't have left you." She tore her eyes from his and turned away. "I told you to go." And from her grudging admission, he knew that she'd done some soul searching, as well. "True, but I shouldn't have listened. I should have stayed and toughed it out instead of running off to Europe where I could be alone. And miserable." He risked reaching out to cup her shoulders with his hands. "I missed you every goddamn day, Kels. I'm so sorry." She didn't pull away, but she didn't turn into his arms, either. She stood staring at the dim, blank wall of the lab cold room, and he wondered whether she was seeing the simple headstone she'd picked out for their daughter. He'd visited it for the first time the day before, and he was surprised to find not tears, but rather a simple peace. A knowledge that he was doing the right thing.
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Finally, she asked, "Why didn't you come back sooner?" The easy answer was his fellowship and the professional responsibilities that had gone with it. But that was cheap, and they both knew it. Luke sighed. "I wasn't ready to, at first. Then, when I was…you didn't answer any of my letters." She stiffened beneath his hands and her breath puffed out on a cloud of icy vapor. The room was edging toward minus twenty, where it would stay for the rest of the weekend until Fong returned, expecting to find their cold, stiff corpses. "So you're here because of the drug," she finished flatly. She turned to face him. "You wouldn't have come back if you hadn't heard that Dr. Fong —" "Damn it, I would have come back!" Luke interrupted fiercely. "I want my life back. I want our life back. Don't you get it?" He advanced on her, crowding her into a dark corner of the frigid room. "I want this back." Even as he bent and caught her lips with his, Luke cursed himself. This had always been the easy part for them. The flash and the fire were cheap, the emotions wary and tricky. But then her lips opened, almost involuntarily, beneath his — And suddenly, nothing was simple or easy at all. Luke flinched as the heat whiplashed through him, mocking the cold of the room. Her fingers clenched in his shirt, though he couldn't tell whether she intended to pull him close or push him away. Then that thought was gone. Their tongues touched, hesitantly at first, and Kelsey's flavor, rich and uniquely feminine, exploded in Luke's brain. This is what he'd come back for. Kelsey. His Kelsey. Wrong, his brain reminded him from the back of a lust-fogged corner. He'd come back to protect her. To, hopefully, work things out with her. Lust was easy. Communication was not. He framed her face with his hands and eased his mouth away, feathering the lightest of kisses across her lips and feeling the power punch through him and leave him weak. "Kels. We shouldn't. We can't. I didn't mean —" He saw the moment she realized what they were doing. Her eyes darkened and she ducked under his arm to stand alone. She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. "You're right." Her voice was as unsteady as his legs felt. "I'm sorry. You're here for Fong, not me." He cursed. "That's not what I said." But he was speaking to her stiff spine. "I'm here for you, Kelsey, but not to pick up where we left off in bed. That part was too easy for us. But Dawn's death…" He had to force the little girl's name out between clenched teeth. "Dawn's death and what happened after showed us that we need more than just sex, Kels. We need to talk more. Communicate." He spread his hands and waited for her answer, heart pounding both in fear and anticipation of her answer. It came out of the darkness on a puff of freezing air. "Then I guess you already have your answer, Lucas. If I'd wanted to communicate, I would've answered your letters." Disappointment was an icy knife in his chest, but he wouldn't let the slice be a fatal one. A year ago he might have cursed and walked away. Now he merely strengthened his resolve. They were going to hash this out one way or the other.
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He bent and scooped the blanket off the floor. "Here, you'd better stay warm. I don't think the vents are going to quit anytime soon." But she wasn't paying attention to him. She was staring up at the gaping grill in the center of the ceiling. Subzero air gushed from it, the humidity adding an eerie layer of sticky, sterile fog. Luke draped the wool over her shoulders. "Kels? You okay?" "The vents!" She grabbed his wrist. "Luke, the vents are big enough for the maintenance crew. We can use them to escape." His first jolt of excitement was quickly followed by an image of Kelsey crawling into a giant, churning fan. He caught her by the waist when she dove for the ladder in the far corner. "Whoa! Slow down. Let's think this through. Those ducts lead from here to the blowers, right? It's a straight shot, Kels. No detours." But it got him thinking. Could they escape? Was there still a chance that they might defeat Fong and live to work out their problems? Kelsey shook him off and dragged the flimsy ladder to the center of the room. "Everything here is interconnected, Luke, and the rooms are flexible. I've used this room as an incubator and as a cold room. There are hot and cold ducts going to this room and to the room next door where I have an experiment going. If we can get from here to there…" "Freedom!" Luke grabbed her by the waist, lifted her up, and planted a triumphant kiss on her lips. She stilled. He froze. Realizing that he'd done just what he'd sworn not to do, he let her slide down his body until her feet were safely on the floor. He stepped away. "Sorry about that." Her eyes darkened. "Yeah. Me, too. Come on." She turned away and bent down for the ladder. "Let's get out of here." They tore strips from the wool blanket to protect their hands and faces from the freezing metal. But as Luke led the way into the ducts, hoping his body would protect Kelsey from the worst of the arctic blast, he wasn't feeling the full effects of the chill. His body retained the warmth from her touch, and his heart carried the knowledge that at the very least, they still had lust, the easy thing, between them. Now he needed to convince her to believe in it long enough to figure out the rest. That is, if they survived the weekend. CHAPTER FIVE The air ducts echoed hollowly. The freezing metal bit into Kelsey's hands through the thin strips of wool blanket, and her knees were numb from the cold that seeped through her jeans. Up ahead of her in the vent shaft, she could just make out Luke's silhouette as he inched forward to the junction where it seemed the hot and cold shafts interconnected. If they could just get into the hot vent, they could drop down into the unlocked warm room where she'd set up an experiment the day before. They could escape Dr. Fong's imprisonment and alert the authorities to the clinical data he had falsified to make the new drug seem foolproof.… And then what? Luke had come for Fong, not for her. A few kisses didn't change the fact that he hadn't come for her before. And it certainly didn't ease the sting that he'd found it so easy to push her away. Perhaps he was right that the sex had always been easy between them — maybe too easy.
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But it didn't mean that talking about Dawn's death was the way to solve anything. "I think I'm there." His words echoed back to her, distorted by the refrigerated gale being pumped past them and by the tight metal shaft they were scrambling through. The cold room was set to minus twenty, the air in the duct probably colder. Kelsey was almost numb. Luke, who was taking the brunt of the blast, had to be hypothermic. "Can you break through?" He'd better be able to, or they were both dead, which was exactly what Fong wanted. "I think so." Luke's words were followed by several loud bangs as he struggled for leverage. "Damn it, I — Ah!" Suddenly, the cold air didn't seem quite so cold, as though warm was mixing in. "Did you get it?" Kelsey called, already crawling toward him, knowing he had. "Are we in?" "We're in. Follow me!" The edges of the access hatch were sharp, but Kelsey didn't care. The shock of the warm air flowing over her cold body was worth the pain. Moments later, Luke reached the vent hatch that opened out into the warm room. He kicked it open and dropped through, leaving Kelsey suddenly alone. She closed her eyes and reveled in the hot air that scalded the backs of her legs and her scalp. Never had heat been more welcome. And when they escaped from the lab, she was going to take a very long, very thorough bath, and then she and Luke would — She and Luke would do nothing. He would return to his work in Europe, and she'd look for another job. Maybe even another line of work. With Fong's dishonesty exposed, her own credibility would be shot. Nobody in the scientific community would believe that she had known nothing of his false clinical results. She'd be unemployed, discredited and alone. But she'd learned once before that alone was sometimes better. Sometimes being with someone was harder than being alone. Luke's voice hailed her from below. "Kels? It's okay. You can come down now." When she didn't answer right away, his tone took on a note of worry. "Kelsey? Can you make it out, sweetheart?" Sweetheart. She closed her eyes against the pain of the careless, meaningless endearment and forced herself to answer, "I'm fine, Luke. I'll be right down." She'd drop down into the warm room; they would let themselves out into the lab, gather what evidence they could and set about destroying Fong's career. And with it, her own. Gritting her teeth, knowing she couldn't stay up in the air vents forever, Kelsey wormed her way forward and slid headfirst through the open vent. Straight into Luke's waiting arms.
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Where before, in the cold room chilled to minus twenty, their embrace had been a contrast of warm sizzles and cool skin, now the contact blazed through Kelsey with reckless, fiery abandon. She looped her arms around Luke's neck to brace herself and felt the heat battle with the cold, chilled core of her body. Of her heart. She stared down at his lips and at the fine sheen of perspiration that already covered his face, and she licked her lips. “Kelsey." Her name on his lips was almost a groan. "We can't do this. We need to talk. We need to —" She pushed away from him and dropped her feet to the floor. "We need to get the hell out of here and do what needs to be done." She strode to the warm-room door, pulling the tattered wool off her hands as she went. There was no way she wanted to enter into any deep, meaningful discussions with her ex-husband. When they'd tried such things before, she'd always ended up feeling soul-naked, while he kept all his barriers, all his distance. Why would she think this time would be any different? She reached for the door handle and the heat broke over her in a wave, as the last of the cold room's chill was melted by the relentless wash of hot air. The warm room was set to 98.6° F — body temperature. She knew, because she'd set it herself nearly eleven hours earlier. "Kelsey —" She didn't turn at Luke's quiet entreaty, no matter how hard the plea in his voice tugged at her. She stared out the single thick window set in the warm-room door and shook her head. "It's no good, Luke. It never was." She grabbed the lever that would open the warm-room door and tugged. Nothing happened. "Oh, God." She yanked again. The lock didn't budge. Luke was at her side in an instant. "What's wrong? I thought you said this room wasn't locked?" Through the glass of the small window, Kelsey saw the room's digital timer blink 1:14. "Oh, hell. My experiment." Luke glanced over at the neat row of labeled petri dishes on the waist-high counter circling the room. "What about it?" "Fong, in all his paranoid wisdom," Kelsey answered in a tone laced with sarcasm, "installed timed locks on the climate-controlled rooms so we wouldn't accidentally open one during an experiment and alter the ambient temperature even a fraction of a degree." She shook her head in disgust. "I can't believe I didn't think of that." Luke touched her shoulder, leaving a hot, itchy imprint. "It's okay. We've both got a lot on our minds." He glanced through the small window, where the digital display had changed to 1:12. "Will the lock disengage when the time's up?" She nodded and felt a trickle of sweat dance off her brow and slide down the side of her face to her throat. She dashed it away impatiently. "Yes, damn it. But that leaves us stuck here for another hour in this sauna." She glanced back up at the vent. "God, it's hot in here." Another dribble of sweat slid down to join the first. "And it's going to get hotter," Luke agreed with a soft growl in his voice.
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Or maybe it wasn't the actual physical temperature that was rising. Kelsey slid a glance over to Luke and saw him watching her with fierce intent. A pulse throbbed at the side of his throat, and he swallowed convulsively when their eyes met and held. "We should —" she licked her lips "— take off a few layers. There's no sense in collapsing from heat exhaustion while we wait for the door to unlock." He nodded. "You're right. We should undress." But neither of them moved. Kelsey swore she could hear her heart skip a beat in her ears. Finally, she wet her dry-feeling lips with her tongue. "This is silly. We used to be married." "Used to be being the operative term there, I think," Luke agreed wryly. He looked away, stretched his arms over his head and twisted, trying to unkink his back, or maybe because he was feeling the same restless energy Kelsey was, the urge to do something. Anything. He lowered his hands and glanced back at her. "We could talk about it." Talk. Part of her yearned to try it, while the larger, smarter part of her insisted that, once again, she would be the one talking, not him. But still… They had an hour to kill, and the temperature was rising rapidly. Kelsey felt her lips curve. "Okay. We'll talk. But you go first. I get to ask you a question, and if I don't think you've answered honestly enough, I don't have to answer a question from you. Fair enough?" He held her gaze for a moment, green eyes probing as though looking for a trick. Then they lit with wicked amusement. He tugged at his shirt and opened the top two buttons. "Fair enough, but I have a condition to add. For every question that one of us answers fairly, the other one has to remove an item of clothing." His grin broke out full-fledged. "It's only sensible, given the heat." "Only sensible," Kelsey agreed feebly, her attention focused on the now loosened buttons of his shirt, which exposed a few inches of tanned, taut fles h. "Okay then." He dropped to sit on the floor, cross-legged. "Ask away." Kelsey remained standing and the question popped out of her mouth before she was even conscious of having wondered about the answer. "Why did you marry me?" CHAPTER SIX Of all the questions Luke had expected from Kelsey to lead off their impromptu game of strip-twentyquestions, Why did you marry me? was the last to come to mind. Then again, the entire situation was bizarre. Trapped by her boss, Dr. Fong, while they'd been searching for evidence to prove that Fong was intent on selling a worthless anti-aging drug in a multimillion-dollar deal, they had escaped into this warm space only to find that the timed lock wouldn't open for another hour. Ergo, their decision to pass the time in conversation — something their previous sex-and-more-sex relationship hadn't relied heavily on. Add in Luke's brilliant idea to up the stakes by losing a few articles of clothing — something they desperately needed to do, or risk heat stroke — and, bang! There you had it.… A really awkward situation.
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Why had he married her? Of all the things Luke had processed in the eleven months they'd been apart, since she'd miscarried their daughter and he'd taken that fellowship in Europe, that was one question he hadn't answered. In fact, it was a question he hadn't even asked. "Because I loved you?" Her eyes hardened at the uncertainty in his tone. "That's the easy answer, Luke. The sort you used to get away with before. Well, not this time. Try again, or it's not worth even trying this stupid —" "Okay, okay." He held up a hand and felt a bead of sweat run down his back. God, it was hot. "I'm sorry. You're right." He paused. "But it's hard to think back to that time, you know? I'm not that same person anymore, so it's difficult to remember what I was thinking and feeling back then." Her eyes softened, and Luke felt a kick of triumph. He chose his next words carefully. "We were finishing grad school and everything was going our way, remember? Post-docs at the same university all lined up, great careers all planned out, and things were…wonderful between us." And suddenly he could remember what he'd been feeling, that sense of awe that such a smart, beautiful woman wanted him, loved him. "Not just the sex, but going jogging together and shopping and just…well, just talking." He trailed off, realizing that they had talked to each other in the beginning. What had happened to that? Without a word, Kelsey lifted trembling fingers to her damp, flushed throat and unbuttoned her white blouse inch by torturous inch. She drew it off her shoulders to pool on the floor behind her. The simple camisole she wore beneath was a pale peach satin that cast her erect nipples into dusky relief. "Okay. What's your question for me?" Outside the little room, the digital timer counted down past the hour mark, and as much as Luke wanted to escape and bring Fong to justice — both for the falsified clinical data and for leaving him and Kelsey to freeze to death — he also wanted the clock to slow. He needed more time with Kelsey, because something told him that what was said in the warm room would determine the fate of their relationship. Because of it, he chose his question carefully. "Why did you tell me to take the fellowship in Europe?" She'd been hospitalized following the late-term miscarriage. Miserable, guilty and unsure how to help her, Luke hadn't been prepared for Kelsey to turn her back on him and tell him to go. Maybe he should have fought harder, insisted on staying, but at the time he'd been hurt by her words. And in a way, relieved to go. She tangled her fingers together and stared at the floor. "Seeing you made it worse," she finally answered in a low, reluctant voice. "When you were around, all I could think about was the excitement of being pregnant and all the plans we'd made for our family…" When she turned her eyes up to his, they were dry. It seemed she had been doing some thinking in the past year, as well. "I wanted you to go away; then I hated you when you went." He nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt, too." He pulled the tails of his shirt out of his waistband and saw her eyes follow his every move. Possessed by the devil, and by the memory of eleven months of lonely, restless nights, he took it slowly, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off. The air burned his chest like fire. Or maybe that was the touch of Kelsey's eyes after so long. Caught up in a sensual spell of his own making, Luke reminded himself that this wasn't about sex. It was about communicating. About asking the questions that had gone too long unanswered. He swallowed hard. "Your turn." Kelsey stood, as though sitting cross-legged facing each other was too vulnerable a position. Or maybe because she was as unnerved by the sight of his bare torso as he was to be sitting there half-dressed.
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He wore more than he might on a beach amongst strangers, yet here he felt twice as naked. "Why did…" Her voice faltered and she tried again, "Why did you come back?" She'd asked him the question before, and he'd told her a half-truth about Dr. Fong. Now he gave her the rest. "I came back for you, Kels. No more, no less. I'd been doing a ton of thinking and I realized I shouldn't have left you when I did, and I shouldn't have left it alone when you didn't answer my letters. I should've camped out on your doorstep until you talked to me. I should've wooed you all over again." He stood as well, and ran a frustrated hand through his warm, staticky hair. "I should've done whatever it took to get you to talk to me." He blew out a breath. "And now look at us. Trapped in Fong's lab, almost dead of frostbite and now sweating our butts off while we wait for the door to open or Fong to come back — whichever happens first." He started to pace, but Kelsey blocked him by stepping into his path. Eyes dark, she caught his hand and lifted it to her camisole. "We're both to blame. For all of it." Blood rushed to his head, to his heart, to places lower down, and he slipped his hands beneath the peach satin. Her skin was smooth and hotter than the steamy air that billowed around them. She lifted her arms and let him ease the camisole over her head and off. Bare chests only a whisper apart, he stopped. Lust was easy. Talking wasn't. "My turn," he murmured, catching hold of her hands when she would have lifted them to his face. "Why didn't you answer any of my letters?" "Later," she murmured, and stood on her toes to close the distance between them. When their lips touched, he was lost. He'd spent too many nights remembering this, wishing she was there beside him, catching her scent on the night air and imagining he heard her sigh. Later, he thought as he sank into the kiss and slid his hands down to cup her lower back and bring her closer. They would talk about it later. Except there had never been a later for him and Kelsey. There was now or nothing. The hot, steamy air slicked moisture on both their skins and made it difficult to tell where one of them left off and the other began. It was all warm, wet flesh and throaty sighs as he sampled the soft, sensitive spot behind her ear and heard her breath catch on his name. The lust was as easy as always — and so much more complicated. He pulled away. "Kelsey —" "Shh…" Desire made her brown eyes into deep, mysterious pools full of excitement, and maybe resignation. "It's okay. I understand." And before his tangled tongue could ask what it was she understood and whether she could explain it to him, she had unzipped her jeans to puddle on the warm floor, then moved to do the same for him. Naked together now after so long, Luke was helpless against the fire raging between them. He caught her by the waist, boosted her up to the edge of the counter, and stepped between her thighs to lose himself in the taste and the feel of Kelsey. His wife. The woman he loved. When she moved to guide him home, he held back. "Kels, I don't have — " She silenced him with a kiss. "It's okay." To Luke, those two words were a promise, a new beginning. It was okay for them to make love unprotected. They were married. They could try again to start a family.
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It was going to be okay. And then, in an instant it was better than okay, for she drew him inside of her and Luke heard the rush and the roar of blood in his head and the pounding of his heart like a runaway train and over it all, Kelsey's cries as they brought each other home, to the place they'd belonged all along. Together. Spent, though not drained, Luke pressed his damp, sweaty cheek to hers. Over the noise of the hot air blowers, he thought he heard a faint beeping outside the room. On the fifth beep, the door clicked. Kelsey pushed at his shoulders and avoided his eyes as she slid off the counter. "Come on, let's get dressed, find some hard evidence to take to the authorities and get the hell out of here before Fong thinks to check up on us." He held out a hand to stop her, to bring her back. "Kelsey." She shook her head without turning around. "No, Luke. This changes nothing. All it proves is that we're still good in bed." She glanced over and colored slightly. "Or on a lab counter." She finished dressing and tossed his clothes to him. "Let's go." Damn it. Luke dragged his clothes on while cursing his ex-wife in his head. Halfway through buttoning his shirt, he shifted to cursing himself. When would he learn that sex didn't solve a damn thing? They'd been talking, communicating for the first time since before she'd gotten pregnant with Dawn, and then… Then it had all gone to hell in a handbasket, all because he couldn't keep his hands off her. Damn it. "You coming?" Face impassive, though still tinged with high color, Kelsey stood at the warm-room door. She peered through the single window. "Seems deserted. It's near dawn on Saturday, after all. Who would be in the lab?" They both knew who. Fong. She popped the lock on the door, but before she could open it, Luke caught her arm. "This isn't over, Kelsey." Finally, she looked up into his eyes, and he saw a poignant blend of old love and new resignation. "Yes it is, Luke. I'm sorry." And she was gone, leaving him in the warm room. Alone. CHAPTER SEVEN The air in the main lab was a cold slap after the hot, steamy atmosphere of the incubator room. And that was just what Kelsey needed, a cold slap of reality. She couldn't believe she'd made love with her ex-husband in the warm room. That they'd been trapped in there together by her deranged boss was no excuse. That Luke admitted he'd made a mistake when he'd left her for a fellowship in Europe right after she'd miscarried their daughter was no excuse. That he was still, hands down, the sexiest man she'd ever met — and the only lover she'd ever taken — was absolutely, positively no excuse.
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She had no excuse. It had been a mistake. Period. "Kelsey, wait!" She shrugged off his hand, angry with him for coming back and stirring up all the emotions she'd managed to store away over the past eleven months, angry with herself for letting him get to her with that last question he'd asked her. Why didn't you answer any of my letters? The honest truth was that she'd answered every damn one of them. They were in a box in the lowest drawer of her desk, not fifty feet down the next corridor. But she couldn't tell him that. It was her weakness. Her vulnerability. And she didn't want to be vulnerable to him ever again. So she squared her shoulders and tried to shake off the sudden surge of melancholy. They would find the evidence they needed to prove that her boss, Dr. Fong, had falsified his clinical trial results. They would use the evidence to foil his plans to sell the bogus anti-aging drug to Pentium Pharmaceuticals. Kelsey's career would be ruined by association, but it was better than the icy death Fong had consigned them to in the lab's cold room. And once it was over? Luke could go back to his fancy European lab, and Kelsey would go back to… Well, she'd find something. Maybe she'd adopt a dog. They were less disappointing than husbands, and when they strayed, it wasn't usually across an ocean. Annoyed more with herself than with Luke now, she jerked her head toward the front of the lab. "Come on, my office is this way." He followed on her heels, close enough that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. It made her want to snarl. They reached the small, neat office and Luke glanced around without any real interest. "We won't find anything here. We both know you didn't falsify the data." For some reason, his confidence in her sent a warm glow through Kelsey. She immediately squashed it. "True, but I don't know how we could break into Fong's office. If you think the locks on the climate-controlled rooms are extreme, you should see the keypad he has on his door." She sat down at her computer and flicked on the monitor. "However —" she tapped a few keys and brought up the Boston General intranet "— he is something of a dinosaur when it comes to computer technology. It's possible that I can access his records from here." Luke glanced at his watch, then at the sky outside, which was lightening to a slick, oily pink as the sun rose. "Fine. You work the computer and I'll see whether I have any luck with Fong's office lock." Absurdly relieved she wouldn't have to share air with Luke while she hacked her way into Fong's account, Kelsey called after him, "Don't mess with the keypad, though. Two wrong codes and everything locks down and an alarm rings down at the security desk, just like with the panic button." She glanced up at the red button just inside her office door. It made no sense to summon BK or Dave, the two overnight security guards on duty. But it was a comfort to know the button was there if she needed it. If they needed it.
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Them. It had been a long time since she'd thought of herself as part of a "them." Frankly there was no use in getting accustomed to it now. Luke would be gone as soon as his company's toehold on the new drug was assured. Wouldn't he? "It doesn't matter. Find the data and get the hell out," she told herself sternly and began to work. Five minutes later, just as she hit the last key and sent her findings to the printer, Kelsey heard an ungodly crash from out in the hallway. Luke! Her heart stuttered in her chest and she raced out into the lab lobby, expecting to find him hurt, or worse, especially when a second crash followed the first. He wasn't in the lobby. He was in Fong's office. The wooden door leaned drunkenly on its hinges. The hightech keypad was intact, still locked to the doorframe, surrounded by a few inches of splintered wood where Luke had hacked his way around it. Cautiously, Kelsey stepped inside. "Where'd you find an ax?" Luke looked up from a filing cabinet and grinned like the boy she'd first met so long ago. "In the fire cabinet above the emergency hose. You said not to mess with the keypad, so…" She nodded. "Works for me. Let's search the office quickly and get the hell out of here." "Your wish is my command," he intoned with a small smile, and Kelsey's throat tightened. In the warm room, he'd reminded her that there had been a time that they had talked about everything and nothing, and done so for hours. When had they lost that? Why had she blocked those memories from her mind and convinced herself that he had never shared himself with her? Maybe, she acknowledged, because blaming him for leaving had been easier than remembering the pain she'd been feeling after Dawn's death. Remembering that he'd gone because she'd told him to go. What if she had tried to share the pain rather than shutting him out? "Kels? You okay?" Shaken from her fugue, Kelsey glanced at Luke and saw little that had changed on the outside. His hair was still a little too long, his eyes still a striking green. He still wore lumberjack plaid shirts tucked into faded jeans. But something about him seemed different. Or maybe it was something in her? She nodded. "I'm okay." Maybe. Unwilling to analyze their relationship — or their past — any further, she crouched down beside him. "Have you found anything? Because when I was in his computer network, I found —" Out in the lobby, the mechanical door clicked open. Luke hissed, "Get down!" and shoved her beneath Fong's desk. He stood and moved away slowly. Kelsey could see his bare ankles and loafers in the eightinch gap between the desk and the floor. Moments later another pair of feet moved into view. "Hands where I can see them, Dr. Sparks. Nice and easy. We wouldn't want you hurt, now, would we?" Kelsey froze as hope rattled through her. It wasn't Fong's voice. It was BK from the security desk. She could explain everything to him and he would help them escape before Dr. Fong —
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"Don't even think about it!" BK's voice cracked on the words. "Dr. Fong left me his gun just in case you came back. Don't think I'm afraid to use it." Oh, God. Kelsey's heart stuttered. BK? "Does it even matter to you that Fong's new drug is going to kill people?" Luke asked. Kelsey saw his feet slide a half step back. BK's feet followed. "I don't know about his research and I don't care," the young guard answered, following Luke another step across the room. "He pays me good money to look after his lab." "And Kelsey?" "She'll be fine. He promised." But BK's voice sounded less sure. He took one last step toward Luke. And he was in range. Kelsey lunged forward beneath the desk and grabbed BK's ankles. Luke leapt in a flying tackle and caught the young guard in the midriff. A shot went wild and the weapon flew out of BK's hand and sailed toward the outer lobby. Luke's fist hammered into BK's face once. Twice. And the young man went limp. Luke hunched over his fallen enemy, breathing hard. When Kelsey stood and touched a hand to his shoulder, Luke reached up, grabbed her and held on tight. "Damn it," he said. "Just damn it." "I couldn't agree with you more, Dr. Sparks." Kelsey whirled toward the familiar voice, barely hearing Luke's curse. Her boss stood in the doorway, holding the gun with practiced, deadly ease. Luke spat a vicious curse. "Fong." "It seems that I was too easy on you earlier this evening," the scientist replied calmly, though madness lurked at the back of his eyes. "I should have shot you and been done with it." He shrugged. "Well, no matter. That is an oversight that can be quickly rectified." He lifted the gun, aimed it directly at Kelsey and fired. CHAPTER EIGHT Luke threw himself at Kelsey when Dr. Fong fired. He crashed against her and brought them both down, rolling to cushion the impact and dragging her behind Fong's desk for what pitiful protection it might afford. The gunshot still echoed in the room, but Luke wasn't hit. Wide-eyed, Kelsey shook her head at Luke's unspoken question. She wasn't hit either. "Damn it, let go of me!" Fong's outraged shout brought Luke back around the desk in time to see the young security guard, BK, struggling with the mad scientist. Luke had thought he'd knocked the guard out cold. Fong had thought BK was on his side. Apparently they'd both been wrong. "You said you wouldn't hurt Kelsey!" the young guard shouted. Fong smiled evilly and brought his gun up. "I lied."
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Without conscious thought, Luke grabbed the heavy fire ax he'd used to bash in the office door. He leapt out from behind the desk and swung the flat of the blade in a glittering arc that slapped the gun out of Fong's hand. Not waiting to give Fong another opportunity on Kelsey's life, Luke reversed the swing and hit Fong in the temple. The thud of metal on flesh was sickening. Without a sound, Fong collapsed across the security guard. BK looked up at Luke with young, tortured eyes. "I'm sorry I called him, man. He said he wasn't hurting anyone. He said he'd protect Kelsey." "We all make mistakes," Luke answered, offering the man a hand up. He tried not to let the words echo in his head, tried not to remember Kelsey's comment when she'd discovered him in the lab the night before. Marrying you was a big mistake. No, getting married hadn't been Luke's mistake. His mistake had been leaving Kelsey alone rather than staying with her after she'd miscarried their daughter. And since then, he'd made another misjudgment. He'd made love to Kelsey instead of talking their problems through. He risked a look at her as she emerged from behind the desk. Was that the last mistake, then? Was it really too late for them? She joined him in the center of the room, and he had to force himself not to reach for her hand. He'd done his best. Now the decision was hers. BK levered himself to his feet, black-eyed and bloodied from Luke's fists. "I'll call the cops." He blinked as the first ray of sunshine glanced through the window. "Hell of a Saturday." When he had gone to make his call, Luke and Kelsey stared down at Fong's unconscious body. Finally she said, "Should we tie him up or something? It could take a while for the police to show up and I'm not looking forward to another scuffle. Or…" Her face lit with a faint grin. "We could lock him somewhere." They dragged Fong to the cold room and removed the ladder they'd used to escape their prison. After they dumped him inside and locked the door, Kelsey took pity on her former boss and turned the thermostat to four degrees rather than minus twenty. "Cold enough to make him uncomfortable," she said, "but not enough to kill him." And then there didn't seem to be anything left for them to say to each other. Afraid if he stayed any longer he'd break down and beg, Luke turned away. "I'll wait for the cops downstairs, okay?" He was halfway across the lobby when he heard her call, "Luke?" He didn't turn back. "Yeah?" Her pause seemed to last a century. Then finally she exhaled a breath. "Before…you asked me why I never answered your letters." He willed his heartbeat to continue. "Yes?" There was a rustle of denim as she turned away. "Come into my office. I have something to show you." He followed her and watched her pull a fat cardboard box out of the lowest drawer of her desk. "What is this?"
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"See for yourself while I talk with the police," she instructed, and waved him to the desk chair that smelled of her. Luke sat and opened the box. Pulled the first sheet of folded paper from the file. And began to read a letter dated ten months earlier. Dear Luke… *** Kelsey dealt with the detectives Peters and Sturgeon who arrived rumpled and hard-faced, having been called from a brutal attack over at the Genetic Research Building. The victim, Genie Watson, was a young researcher Kelsey knew only as brilliant and somewhat shy. The E.R. doctors weren't sure whether she would live. The brutality was a grim reminder of what could have happened to Kelsey if Luke hadn't been there to save her. She shivered at the thought, and she wondered how many of the letters he had read by now. What he thought of them. "This is unbelievable," Detective Peters muttered, scrubbing a hand across his handsome face as a pair of uniformed officers wrestled a still-unconscious Fong out of the cold room and carried him to the elevators. "Two attempted murders in the same day and they're not related? That doesn't make sense." "Sure it does," replied his partner. Detective Sturgeon's cheeks worked as he sucked on a peppermint. "Medical research is big business. Big money. There's no better motive than that." "True enough." Peters flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Let's get a few details from Dr. Sparks," he flicked a glance at Kelsey and amended, "the other Dr. Sparks, and be on our way." But Luke wasn't where she'd left him. The box of letters sat atop her desk, neatly closed. The room was empty. BK stuck his head in the door and addressed the detectives. "Luke said he'd come down to the station tomorrow to give you a report. He had something he needed to do." The detectives grumbled but agreed that would be fine. They asked a few more questions, took copies of the falsified records Kelsey had found in Fong's online databases and departed. BK escorted them downstairs, still trying to make amends for his lapse in judgment. That left Kelsey upstairs in the ruined lab. Alone. Damn. Had the letters been too little, too late? Probably. She should have sent them long ago. It seemed she and Luke had both been guilty of hiding behind old patterns. Well, no longer. Kelsey gritted her teeth and stared at her reflection in the window. Her hair was a mess, she was wearing yesterday's clothes and she had a hickey that rode low on her collarbone. But she didn't care that she looked a fright. She was going to get her man, as she should have done months ago. Angry and invigorated, she punched the elevator button and rode down to the lobby, planning. She had no job and no reputation, so she could follow him to Europe, if necessary. She would do whatever it took. She gained the curb and lifted a hand for a cab.
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The familiar, beloved voice was a welcome intrusion. "Hey, pretty lady. Want a ride?" And there he was, astride the sleek black motorcycle they'd ridden so many times together, holding out the turquoise-and-white helmet he'd given her. "I love you," she said clearly before her nerve could fail her. "I'm sorry I told you to go, and I'm sorry I didn't follow. I'm sorry I didn't mail the letters." He caught her hand and eased her onto the seat behind him, twisting around so he could tug the helmet over her messy hair. "You kept them. That was enough." He touched his lips to hers, and she absorbed the burn of contact, so much hotter than the warm room had been. "I love you, too. And I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner." His lips tipped up in that old, beloved grin. "So I guess we're both sorry specimens, eh?" He turned back around and revved the bike. "Want to go for a ride?" Her heart tripped at the question, then settled into a new, happier rhythm. "Where are we going?" she asked, not caring what he answered. To bed. To Europe. It didn't matter, as long as they were together. He eased out into the snarled Chinatown traffic and called back over his shoulder. "I was thinking we could go sit by the swan boats and talk." Kelsey wrapped her arms around his waist and tangled her fingers in the soft, light lumberjack plaid she would always associate with him. "Talk about what?" He laughed, a young, carefree sound, as he swerved the bike between a pair of double-parked yellow cabs. "About us, of course. About why we should get married again. About where we're going to live and how many children we want. About anchovies and baseball teams and all those things we used to talk about. Do you remember?" He revved up the bike, and Kelsey felt the surge of the engine between her legs and the warmth of the man in front of her. She tossed her head back as they sped away, and she laughed out loud. "I remember!" And this time as she traveled the crooked streets of Chinatown there were no eyes following her, no stealthy footsteps in the shadows. There was only Kelsey. And her protector.
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Double Destiny by Caroline Anderson Fran Williams appears to have everything -- a demanding yet rewarding career as an ER nurse, and a steady man in her life. But the man is less than attentive and the job is causing her burn out. In reality Fran is at a crossroads. When handsome, wealthy Josh Nicholson turns up in Fran?s ER needing her attention to a minor injury, it seems like her long Monday will end on a high note. She doesn?t suspect that accepting Josh?s innocent invitation to coffee will set in motion a chain of events that will transform her life. Because what Fran doesn?t know is that destiny has more than one plan in mind for her -- it has two?
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| He was the archetypal tall, dark, and handsome -- and he was bleeding all over her department. Fran sighed. Technically she was off duty now but everyone else was busy. Besides, at least he wasn’t dying, unlike all her other patients today, and she might as well end Monday on a high note. Ignoring her sore feet and overwhelming thirst, she took his sheet from the tray and glanced at him again. He was slouched against the back of a chair, his head bent as he lifted away a wad of tissue and studied the spreading stain on his shirtfront. “Mr Nicholson? Would you come with me, please?” She didn’t wait to see if he was following, just walked off, conscious of the firm, even tread behind her. She went into a cubicle, turned and stopped in her tracks. Blue eyes. So blue – cobalt, like a tropic night, and rueful. She returned his smile, unable to help herself, and waved at the chair. “Have a seat, let’s take a look at you.” He sat, peeling back his shirt to expose a slice in his chest, just between the flat copper coin of his nipple and his smooth, firm shoulder. Right on his luscious and well-formed pecs. Oh, boy. “So, how did you do this?” she asked, peering at the wound and trying not to be distracted by his body or that mobile and expressive mouth just on the edge of her vision. “I tripped over a damned cat and fell in a pile of rubbish,” he said, his deep voice rough with disgust. “I knew I didn’t like cats. Now I know why.” Suppressing a smile, Fran snapped on gloves and took a closer look, then once she was satisfied there was nothing lurking in the wound, she cleaned him up. He winced and let out a tiny grunt of pain, and she patted it dry and straightened. “Poor baby,” she teased gently. “It’ll need stitches, but it’s clean and there’s no penetrating injury. I’ll numb it.” He snorted and said something on the lines of “about time” under his breath, and she hid her smile. It took only minutes to suture him, but by the time she’d finished, she knew the Underground would be chaos. Still, that was London for you. She sighed quietly, but not quietly enough. “Problem?” he asked, easing on his jacket over the ripped and bloodstained shirt.
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She shrugged. “It’s rush-hour. The Tube will be heaving, and I can’t be bothered to walk. I’ll just wait for the rush to subside.” “Have I held you up?” She gave him a rueful grin. “You’re not the only one. It happens all the time.” “But this was my fault. Let me get you a coffee while you wait.” “You don’t need to do that,” she protested, but he just smiled that sexy, crooked smile and his eyes twinkled mischievously under the firm, arching brows. “Oh, I do. Besides, I’m still feeling a bit iffy – reaction to the anaesthetic, I expect. You ought to keep an eye on me, really--“ his eyes scanned her badge, “--Sister Williams.” Suddenly -- ridiculously – breathless, she laughed at him and pulled open the cubicle curtain, to find everyone’s eyes riveted on them. “Just quickly, then,” she agreed. “There’s a canteen in the hospital—“ He pulled a face. “I had in mind somewhere a little bit more...” He paused, and Fran chuckled. “I’m sure we can find somewhere a little bit more. Give me two minutes and I’ll be with you,” she promised, and went into the locker room. A moment later the door behind her opened and shut with a little click. “Do you know who that is?” Anna hissed. Fran glanced over her shoulder at her colleague and friend. “Should I?” Anna rolled her eyes. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? His name’s Josh Nicholson. Think about it. I have to go, I’m needed in Resus.” She disappeared again, leaving Fran puzzling as she changed. Josh Nicholson. Now she thought about it, his name rang vague bells, but she still couldn’t place it. He wasn’t an actor or a TV presenter, he didn’t look like an MP. Fran shrugged. Daniel would know. She’d ask him later. She pulled on her T-shirt and jeans, slipped her feet into comfortable trainers and headed for the door. He was waiting where she’d left him, flicking idly through the leaflets in a rack on the wall, and he turned to her with a smile that made her heart hiccup. “All set?” They went to a coffee bar just down the road, one of those places that sold pastries to die for and about ten zillion different kinds of coffee. She had a cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkle, and he had his strong and black. She would have guessed that, but she wasn’t alone in reading minds. He saw her eyes straying to a wicked chocolate Danish, and ordered it for her. “I’ll be huge,” she protested, but she let him order it anyway because it looked irresistible and she was starving. She didn’t bother to cut it into neat little bits, just picked it up and sank her teeth into it and groaned with ecstasy as the flavour exploded on her tongue. “Good?” “It’s gorgeous,” she said with her mouth full, and he laughed softly and shook his head, an indulgent and curiously tender look in his eyes.
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Why doesn’t Daniel look at me like that? she wondered, but it was a fruitless line of thought. Daniel was – well, she couldn’t even remember his face just then. How odd. She turned her attention back to the sinful little pastry, trying to ignore Josh and the expression in his eyes. She was doing fine until he caught her hand halfway to her mouth and turned it, biting into the soft chocolate folds of the pastry and bringing her heart crashing to a standstill for a second. His tongue flicked out to catch the crumbs on his lips, and she looked hastily away. A little mew of need was threatening to escape and she was in grave danger of making a complete idiot of herself. “You were right,” he said softly. “It is gorgeous. I could easily become a chocoholic.” She swallowed and cleared her throat, pushing the rest towards him on the plate. “Please, finish it, I’ve had enough,” she lied, then made a production of looking at her watch. “Heavens, is that the time? I can’t be long. I’ve got to meet Daniel.” “Daniel?” She hesitated. “My – boyfriend, I suppose.” His smile was questioning. “You don’t sound very sure.” Because she wasn’t? “I haven’t been seeing him long – just a few weeks. He’s a reporter. I’m not sure he’s my type, really. It’s – nothing special.” His laugh was cynical, maybe slightly bitter. “Is it ever?” “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “It should be – shouldn’t it?” “So they say.” For a second their eyes locked, and then he shrugged and turned his attention to the last mouthful. Absently she watched him chew and swallow, clamping her jaw to keep her mouth shut. How about you, do you have anyone, special or not, she wanted to ask, but it was none of her business, and anyway, it didn’t sound like it. No-one special, at least, either now or in the past. She felt suddenly sad, for him and for herself. Bridget Jones here I come, she thought, and drained her cup, setting it down with a little smack. “I really have to go now. Thanks for the coffee.” He met her eyes, his own thoughtful. “My pleasure. Thank you for sewing me up. Have fun with Daniel.” I doubt it, she thought. “Come back in ten days to have the stitches out – and if you ever need any more needlework doing, let me know.” His eyes gleamed with something mischievous. “I’ve got a button missing,” he murmured, and she laughed, breathless again. “Not quite what I had in mind.” His smile was teasing and perhaps a little sad. “No. Take care, Sister Williams. I’ll see you in ten days. Thanks again.”
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She felt his eyes on her all the way to the corner, but when she turned back to wave, he was gone. Shrugging, she battled with the Tube and a curious sense of loneliness, and hurried home. *** Daniel was waiting when she arrived at the pub, and she buzzed his cheek and slid onto the bar stool beside him. “Good day?” he asked. She thought of the lives they’d lost, the awful waste, and shut her mind to it. Josh immediately filled it, and wasn’t so easy to dismiss. “Not especially. How about you?” She didn’t really listen to his answer, just sipped her drink and wondered why she’d never noticed before how colourless his eyes were. “Ever heard of Josh Nicholson?” she asked. Daniel stared at her, stunned. “Josh Nicholson? Hasn’t everyone heard of Josh Nicholson?” She shrugged. “I know the name - I can’t place him.” “You should read the papers, darling. He buys and sells companies – very successfully, by all accounts. He’s a bit of an art collector, too.” He straightened up, perhaps sensing a story, and Fran suddenly wished she hadn’t mentioned him. “Why?” he added, his eyes searching her face, missing nothing. Fran shrugged again, strangely unwilling to talk about him to an insatiable newshound like Daniel. Patient confidentiality, she told herself, and nothing to do with those beautiful blue eyes or the even, white teeth biting into her chocolate Danish over coffee just an hour ago. She turned her attention to her drink, fiddling with the ice cubes. “No reason. Someone mentioned him. It’s just been annoying me, that’s all.” She changed the subject, sipped her way through another drink and then picked up her bag, the horror and exhaustion of the day suddenly catching up with her. That and the fact that talking to Daniel really wasn’t that special, she was beginning to realise. Funny how talking to Josh for such a short time had brought that right into focus. She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Daniel, I need an early night.” “I’ll walk you home.” She sighed inwardly, but Camden at night was no place for a woman alone. Too many people ended up face down in the canal lock, and at the age of twenty-six she wasn’t ready to be stabbed and drowned. She’d just have to be firm when they got to the door, but it wouldn’t be the first time. They paused at the outer door at the bottom of the stairwell. “Going to invite me in?” Fran saw the seductive gleam in his eyes and shook her head. “I’m really bushed. We had an awful day. I’m sorry.” “Maybe tomorrow.” “Maybe.” She returned his kiss with reticence and ran up to her flat, where she discovered her flatmate Stella had finished the milk and threw her tea untouched down the sink. Early night, she told herself, but she didn’t sleep well. Finally dropping off in the small hours of the morning, she woke late and had to hurry to the hospital, arriving with an ambulance. Once again, at the sound of the siren her heart pounded and her throat closed with dread.
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Crazy. She’d never felt like this before yesterday, in all her years of nursing. It was ridiculous. The ambulance doors opened, a team already working on the patient, and she followed them into Resus and stood staring helplessly as they struggled and failed to save him. Again, she thought, staring at the blood. Another wasted life – who’s going to tell his relatives? I can’tAnna paused beside her on the way out, giving her a curious look. “You OK?” “I’m fine,” she said a little desperately. “I’ll do Triage.” Triage was simple. She just looked at cuts and bumps and broken toes, and ranked them in order of priority. Nothing drastic, nobody critical, they came in ambulances and had immediate priority. Here, she was safe, she thought, her adrenaline level slowly falling again. Good grief, what was wrong with her? She’d always wanted to do this, always known she was cut out to be a trauma nurse. Dammit, she was good at it. Well, not now, apparently. Not any more. She got through that day by focusing on routine – mundane stuff she could do with her eyes shut, but it kept her sane. She had Wednesday and Thursday off, but Friday was worse – she had to work in Resus and they had one patient who was touch and go, but they got him stable and up to Theatre, and she thought she’d be all right. No such luck. A multiple RTA brought a wave of patients with massive injuries. Three of them died, two before their relatives could get there. Over and over again she had to talk to parents and sons and daughters, breaking the news that would destroy their lives, and every time another little piece of her died, too. Still trembling, she went off duty and had a sleepless night punctuated by hideous nightmares, and the adrenaline was still running when she got to work on Saturday morning. Please let it be skinned knees and splinters today, she thought, but of course it wasn’t. The place was buzzing, and all they could talk about was Josh Nicholson. “I can’t believe he survived,” Anna said candidly. “They showed the car on the news -- you know what it’s like when they cut them out.” Fran was stunned. “Josh? The guy who was in here on Monday? Are you sure it was him?” “Yes – it was on the television news this morning. It happened last night. It’s in the paper, too – look.” Fran looked, horrified. It was only five days since she’d sewn him up and he’d taken her for coffee – he’d been strong and fit and full of humour, alive and vital, a man in his prime. And now he had multiple injuries and was in critical condition in Addenbrooke’s in Cambridge, and he might never find that special person she’d sensed was missing from his life. If he even lived. She pictured those astonishing, laughing blue eyes dimmed in death, and felt sick. Oh, lord, she thought. Not another one. Not Josh. This can’t be happening. “Are you OK?” Anna asked, eyeing her worriedly. “You’ve gone a weird colour.” She pulled herself together with an almost physical effort. “Sorry. It was just the shock, after he was in here so recently. Yes, I’m fine.” But she wasn’t, and by two that afternoon she found herself sitting down in the break room with her hands wrapped firmly round a hot cup of disgustingly sweet tea and Anna standing over her frowning. “Fran, I think you should go home,” she said, but Fran shook her head.
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“I’ll be fine.” Anna snorted and wheeled out, and a moment later her boss appeared, his face worried. “Anna tells me you’ve got a problem.” “Anna talks too much.” He sat beside her, staring at his hands intently. “We all do this, you know. Everyone, at some point, reaches a stage when it’s all too much. Yesterday was grim. Today hasn’t been much better. I think you should go home – see how you are tomorrow. You’re overdue for leave, and it’s beginning to tell.” “It’s not that—“ “I know. Go home, we’ll talk tomorrow.” So she went, and cried tears of frustration, and rang Daniel. “Are you doing anything tonight?” she asked. “I could do with talking to someone.” “I’m busy – I’m on a case,” he told her. “You could come with me to the hotel and help me people-watch. I’ve got a lead for a particularly juicy and scurrilous bit of dirt on one of our esteemed political leaders – fancy it?” She didn’t, but she went anyway, and tried to talk to him about her job, but his mind wasn’t on it and she could tell he was writing his copy in his head. Then the politician in question hove into view, and she was forgotten. “I’ll see you soon,” he said distractedly as she got up to leave. Would he? Possibly, possibly not. She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything any more. She went home and found Stella there, feet up on the coffee table, the sitting room strewn with airing washing and the kitchen a mess from end to end. “You know, you really are the flatmate from hell,” she said calmly, shoving some washing out of the way and perching on the edge of a chair, and Stella just grinned. She was watching the news, and suddenly Josh’s face appeared on the screen. Fran sank down onto a chair, heart pounding, and learned that he was stable but critical. Please let him make it, she thought. Not that she’d ever see him again anyway, of course, but he’d been so vital, so alive. He couldn’t die. She had another sleepless night, dreams of Josh’s accident mingled with the mayhem of the past few days in A and E, and the next day she fell apart. She couldn’t do the simplest thing, and her boss took her into his office and sat her down. “This can’t go on. You’re going to crack up, Fran. You need to take time off to draw breath and think about your life. Maybe this isn’t right for you any more. Maybe you need to do something else.” She stared at him, stunned. “Like what?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Community nursing? Something rural? Maybe get out of London and have a total break. I’ll have you back any time, you know that, but for now, I’m sending you away. You’ve got three weeks’ leave owing. That takes you to the end of October. If you want to come back then, you can, but I don’t think you will and I don’t think you should, at least not for some months.”
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She was stunned – shocked to the core. Community nursing? What was he on, for heaven’s sake! She was a trauma nurse – except she wasn’t, apparently, not any more. “Are you sacking me?” she said in disbelief, but he just smiled kindly, and it nearly undid her. “No – I’m rescuing you from an intolerable situation. You’ve got burn-out, Fran. It happens to the best of us – and you are the best. We’ll miss you hugely, but you need to do this. Forget coming back at the end of October. I think you should resign – get it right out of your system and rebuild your confidence. Then think again. And if you need a reference, just ask.” “And what will you say?” she asked bitterly. “That I can’t cope?” “That you’re the best trauma nurse I’ve ever had.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and hugged him. “Thanks – I think.” “It’s the right thing for you, Fran. Believe me.” She didn’t, but nevertheless, her goodbyes said, she found herself standing on the pavement outside the hospital half an hour later, utterly lost. She was a trauma nurse – highly skilled, highly trained – highly stressed. What else could she do? Something rural, he’d said. Go home, to Woodbridge? Not that it was home any more, but the little town ninety miles away in friendly, sleepy Suffolk was where she’d grown up and she knew it well. She still had friends there – including Jackie, with whom she’d trained eight years ago and who she really missed. Jackie ran a nursing agency. She’d be able to find her a nice little rural job. She shook her head and gave a disbelieving snort. It was too soon to make a decision. She walked home, unaware of her surroundings, and when she got in she made a cup of tea and opened the fridge for the milk, then sniffed, puzzled. Not the milk, so what, then? Something had died in the fridge, she was sure of it. With a short sigh she cleared the worktop above it and emptied it out, then washed it from end to end, scrubbing out the old orange juice dribbles and the encrusted milk spills and something brown and horrible down the back wall. Anything rather than sit and think. Then she went through every item and threw out most of Stella’s because they were ages past their sell-by date or just plain rotten. An hour later, with the fridge and kitchen sorted out and no more readily available distractions, she sat down with a fresh cup of tea and a dash of milk that was probably still just about safe and thought, I’m unemployed. It was terrifying. She had her rent to pay, hugely high considering the rather basic condition of the little twobedroomed flat she shared reluctantly with the undomesticated Stella. She also needed to eat, and although she had a small amount of money put away, it really was small, only enough to cover repairs to her car, for instance. Rural, she thought. No gangs of youths playing havoc around the bins on the ground three floors down. No sirens going all night, no constant hum of traffic and pressure of humanity. How tempting. Daniel rang her that evening, and she told him about her job, or the lack of it. “Wow. That was a bit sudden. Listen, I got a brilliant scoop last night,” he went on, immediately switching back to himself. She listened, made non-committal noises and cradled the phone thoughtfully. Was he really totally self-centred, or was it just her being paranoid? Both, probably. Funny how she’d never noticed it before, but so much for his moral support.
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She didn’t see him that night, or the next, but she saw Stella and didn’t get a much better response from her. Her flatmate was obviously more worried about her share of the rent than Fran’s predicament. “So will you get another job round here or do I need to start looking for someone else?” she asked, and Fran thought about it and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she replied, but in truth it was getting less and less appealing to stay in the city. What was the attraction? Her less than supportive boyfriend? The flatmate from hell? On Wednesday she rang Jackie and chatted for a moment, then screwing up her courage she told her what had happened. “Gosh, you poor thing,” Jackie said, all sympathy. “How scary. Look, I’m sure I can find you something. Do you want to live in?” “Well, I’ll have to live somewhere and I can’t commute from London.” “Mmm.” She paused thoughtfully, then went on, “There’s a possibility – a local GP, Xavier Giraud. He’s looking for a part-time practice nurse in the morning, and someone to look after his children after school. It’s a live-in post and the house is absolutely fabulous, you’ll love it. Georgian – gorgeous. So’s he, actually. He’s a widower. His wife died in a car accident a couple of years ago – it was tragic. Such a waste of a life.” Inexplicably she thought of Josh, and dismissed him. Josh was fine. She needed to listen to Jackie. “What’s he like – as a person, I mean?’ she asked, making herself focus. ‘Sounds French or something.” “He is. He’s super - really kind. All his patients adore him. It’s a good practice, too. Modern, purpose built, very well equipped.” “But – nannying?” Fran said doubtfully. “Well, it isn’t really nannying, they’re older than that. The kids have got problems, though. Well, not the boy, he’s fine, I gather, but the girl. Since the accident she’s in a wheelchair and she can’t talk. It’s so sad.” Fran’s soft heart reached out to the unknown child. “What’s wrong with her?” “Nobody seems to know. Rumour has it that there’s nothing wrong, it’s just psychological, but she’s seen every specialist known to man, by all accounts, and she has regular physio. Poor little thing. It would be quite a challenge, but it’s not exactly cutting edge medical.” Fran found her interest piqued. This job sounded more appealing by the minute. “Tell me more about him,” Fran prompted. “Why’s he failed with the girl, if there’s nothing wrong? Lack of parenting skills?” “Lord, no, he’s a wonderful father, by all accounts, and he’s gutted by his inability to help her. He’s left no stone unturned, I can assure you. He’s a good doctor, Fran, I know that. Nobody’s missing anything obvious here, it’s a very unusual case. Very sad, and it couldn’t have happened to a less deserving family. It’s such a shame.” “Isn’t it always?” Fran said slowly, thinking of all the news she’d had to break and the undeserving families she’d destroyed with that news. “Shall I talk to him, maybe set up an interview?” Jackie suggested. “He’s getting desperate.”
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“Sure,” she said, not really sure at all but running out of options. All she knew was that going back to A and E wasn’t one of them, certainly not now, and maybe not even in the future. Every day when she woke and knew she didn’t have to go in there and face the mayhem, she felt a wave of relief amongst the uncertainty. But nannying a child with such huge problems? “Come back to me when you’ve spoken to him,” she said doubtfully. Ten minutes later the phone rang. “Can you do eleven on Friday morning?” She thought of driving out of London, and decided to get the train. “Sure. Where do I go?” “Look, I’ve got an idea. It’s ages since I’ve seen you. Come here tomorrow night – it would be lovely to catch up a bit, and I can fill you in more on Xavier.” So she drove up the next afternoon and spent the evening with Jackie in her flat, and they got a takeaway and it was just like old times. And Jackie, unlike Stella and Daniel, was really involved and sympathetic and understanding, and she began to feel less of a failure. Maybe coming back up here and working for Xavier Giraud and his children would be just exactly what she needed. “Miss Williams?” Fran stood and looked up into smoke-grey eyes - the kindest, most understanding eyes she’d ever seen and felt instantly safe. “Dr Giraud,” she said, and held out her hand. His grip was hard and warm, and she was suddenly acutely aware of him as a man. How odd. He was too old for her – probably in his late thirties, although that was no great age. Only ten years, and yet in terms of responsibility and family life, it was light years. Poles apart, she thought with regret. She dragged her common-sense back into play. She was here about a job, not to size him up as a prospective replacement for Daniel – a contest he would, she decided emphatically, win hands down, ten years older or not. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,” she said, and he laughed a little humourlessly. “I should be thanking you,” he corrected, just a teasing hint of a French accent giving him away and adding another layer of interest and mystery. Fran, the job, she reminded herself, and followed him through to his office. He was tall, she noticed. Tall and broad and with an air of dependability, but his face was tired and in the depths of those beautiful grey eyes was a bleak despair she’d seen before in the eyes of relatives. His daughter, she thought. His poor, tragic little daughter, confined to a chair for no apparent reason, and him powerless to help her. “Tell me all about yourself,” he said as they were seated, but before she could really get launched on an explanation, his phone rang. “Excuse me a moment – Giraud. Yes, put her on.” She listened to the one-sided conversation, to his gentle reassurances and calming voice, and then he hung up and turned to her, palms upturned in a typically Gallic gesture.
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“I have to go. A patient with heart disease is going downhill fast, and I need to be there. He won’t go to hospital and his wife’s terrified. I’m so sorry about this. Look, give Jackie your CV and she can give you this job description, and if you want to talk to me again, please come back. Unfortunately the rest of my day is committed with the children, so I can’t even promise to see you later.” He stood, unravelling his long legs and scooping up his jacket. “I’m sorry, I’m really going to have to hurry but I’d love to see you again if you’re interested.” She found herself whisked out in moments, and went back to the nursing agency. “Gosh, that was quick.” Jackie said, surprised. “He had to go out.” “So you didn’t really get to speak to him?” She thought of their short conversation, and realised it had told her far more about him than seemed possible. “Not for long. He seems fine,” she told her. “He wants my CV. I suppose I ought to do one if I’m serious about this job hunting.” Jackie laughed. “Borrow my computer. I’ve got a standard CV template on it.” So she did, and then an hour later, after a quick sandwich with Jackie, she headed back to London – her home. Did she really want to dislocate her entire life so absolutely? The drive in itself – choked with traffic and honking horns and fumes - was almost enough to convince her. Then she got back to the flat and it was dirty and untidy again, and yet again she had to clean up the kitchen before she could make so much as a cup of tea. Why on earth would she want to stay in London? What was holding her? Not loyalty to her flatmate, certainly, or her relationship with Daniel of the colourless eyes. Not the press of humanity or the noise or the ease of getting about. She pictured Dr Giraud’s eyes, the soft smoky-grey, the depth of understanding, and recalled his voice, dark-chocolate and hinted with that subtle accent. She felt drawn to him, she realised, even after such a short meeting. His daughter she was less sure about, but at least she wouldn’t be bleeding to death, unlike almost everyone else Fran had had to deal with in the last few weeks. Josh came to mind again, and she wondered how he was getting on in Addenbrooke’s, and if he was making a steady recovery. He’d ceased to be newsworthy, so obviously was stable. One less to worry about, not that he was in any way on her conscience. Unlike the others. It’s not your fault they died, she told herself for the hundredth time, and rang Daniel. “I’m back,” she told him. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ She felt a twinge of guilt for not telling him the truth about her trip, but squashed it. “Lovely. It was fun seeing Jackie again. Are you busy tonight?” “Working. Going to make me a better offer?”
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She laughed, knowing exactly what he meant and refusing to rise to the bait. “Not really.” “How about Monday?” “Fine. Seven?” “OK. Got to go, Fran.” The weekend stretched away ahead of her, and she filled it aimlessly, her mind whirling all the time. Could she live in sleepy Suffolk again after so long in London? Yes. Would she want to? Probably. London certainly was doing nothing to endear her to it. It was raining, and she seemed to spend the whole weekend sopping wet because she couldn’t bear to be trapped in the flat with Stella and the endless television. Monday was better, and she went out to Regent’s Park after lunch and wandered round for hours. Should she go? Xavier Giraud needed a nurse. She needed a job and a home. Could she do it? She glanced at her watch, and realised with a start that Daniel would be round in an hour and she had to get home. She was hurrying back, crossing Camden High Road, when there was a screech of brakes on the crossing behind her and a sickening thump. Her heart pounding, she turned and looked at the man on the ground. He had a head injury, and his limbs were lying at an awkward angle. He’d choke if someone didn’t sort out his airway, she thought, but her feet seemed rooted to the spot and her body refused to obey her. “Let me through, I’m a doctor,” someone said, and she watched with relief as he took over and assessed the man, checked his airway and supported his neck, snapping out instructions to the bystanders. Fran watched helplessly until the man was loaded into the ambulance, then pulling herself together she almost ran back to her flat. She was late, she realised dimly. It was nearly eight o’clock, and dark now. Daniel would be livid. Daniel wasn’t. He was in bed with Stella, instead. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been in Stella’s bed, but they were in Fran’s bed, and somehow that just made it worse. Not that it should have surprised her. Stella used everything of Fran’s – why not Daniel, too? “Don’t mind me,” she snapped, and wrenched off the quilt, heedless of their dignity. “Out, please. I need to pack.” “Fran, I can explain—“ “I don’t doubt it, Stella, but I’m not sure I can be bothered to listen.” She ignored their struggles for modesty and snatched down her big sports bag from the top of the wardrobe. She didn’t have many clothes – just as well, really, she thought, cramming them all in as Daniel and Stella made themselves scarce. She dumped the overful bag by the door, stuffed the rest of her things into a few carrier bags and unplugged her television from the sitting room. A couple of pictures came off the wall and into a cardboard box that was lying around courtesy of the sobbing Stella. A few other treasures and her wash things from the bathroom joined them, but the majority of her stuff she couldn’t be bothered with. Let Stella have it, along with everything else. Her milk, her clothes – her boyfriend.
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She ferried her things down to her car, bumping the heavy bag down the endless stairs, and when she made the last trip she found Daniel waiting at the bottom. “Fran, what are you doing?” She gave him a withering look. “I would have thought you’d forgone any right to ask that,” she said tartly, and shouldered past him to her car. He opened the boot for her, and she dropped in the last three carrier bags and slammed the bootlid shut. “Goodbye, Daniel. Have fun with Stella – you can go back to bed now. In fact, why don’t you move in? She needs a new flatmate and you obviously get along just fine.” She drove off without a backward glance, and within minutes was headed out towards the M11 and sanity. She rang Jackie an hour later as an afterthought from a service station, and asked if she could borrow her sofa again for the night. “Sure. Are you OK? You sound a bit strange.” “I’ll live. My flatmate, on the other hand, will probably die of food poisoning or a sexually transmitted disease if there’s any justice. I’ll see you in an hour or so.” She hung up, and getting back in the car, she drove the rest of the way feeling much calmer. The nearer she got to Suffolk the better she felt, and by the time she arrived at Jackie’s flat a little after eleven, she was beginning to feel positively cheerful. “I’ve had Xavier on the phone about you,” Jackie told her as she carried in her overnight bag. “I think, if you’re going to be around, he’d like to talk to you.” “Good. I need a job – and I need a home. I just found my flatmate and the man I thought was my boyfriend in my bed together, so I’ve left for good. I’m now officially homeless as well as jobless. Beat that for a week’s work.” Jackie looked guilty. “Oh, Fran, I’d love to have you here, but there’s this new man in my life – he’s called David, and he’s really gorgeous, and I’ve got great hopes—“ “And you don’t want me cramping your style. Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ll be gone as soon as possible – if I can’t get a live-in job, I’ll get a flat in the next day or two. You won’t be stuck with me, I promise.” *** With that promise ringing in her ears, she went to work with Jackie in the morning and phoned the surgery. Dr Giraud was busy, she was told, but he’d ring her back as soon as he was available. She flicked through a few other options Jackie offered her while she waited for Giraud to return her call, but there was nothing of interest. Elderly ladies, doubtless charming in their way but too far removed from the bustle of the workplace for Fran’s taste. No, she didn’t want a one-on-one job – too intense, too claustrophobic. She needed variety. Xavier Giraud’s practice and children would be a happy balance, she’d decided – if he’d consider her. The phone rang, and Jackie answered it and waved her through into her office at the back. She picked up the receiver. “Hello? Fran Williams here.” “Miss Williams? It’s Xavier Giraud. I gather from Jackie you might still be interested in my vacancy.”
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She thought again what a gorgeous voice he had, rich and mellow. It brought something to life inside her. “I’d like to talk to you again,” she said. “I’m sorry if I sound indecisive but it’s so far from what I’ve done up to now and I do want to be sure.” “It’s rather a strange job,” he said, “but don’t let me put you off.” His soft chuckle tingled over her nerve endings, and she had to struggle to concentrate on the rest of their conversation. She arranged to see him at eleven, then hung up and went through into the front of the agency, his voice still echoing in her head. And not only his. She could hear Jackie talking, and someone else. It was a voice she was sure she knew, and as she turned the corner she stopped dead. There in a wheelchair by the desk was a man with the sexiest smile and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “Well, if it isn’t the bodacious Sister Williams,” he said, and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t the accident-prone Mr Nicholson,” she replied, smiling back. “It’s good to see you alive.” “Do you two know each other?” Jackie asked, fascinated, and Josh chuckled. “Let’s just say we met over a red-hot needle a little while ago.” “How is the chest?” Fran asked. “Oh, the chest is fine – it’s healed beautifully. Unfortunately, though, the rest of me is lagging behind a little, hence my visit here. I need a nurse.” Jackie smiled at her encouragingly, and Fran sat down, the light dawning. Josh Nicholson needed a nurse – and Jackie wanted her to take the job. Xavier wanted her to take his, too, and she was torn. Are you available at short notice? It’s just that I’m stuck for cover for the children at the moment, and I’m having to take the afternoons off, and it’s really not fair on my colleagues. You do know, by the way, that my daughter doesn’t walk or talk? He’s a wonderful father, by all accounts, and he’s gutted by his inability to help her. Josh’s eyes blazed a challenge, though, and that fascinating mouth was curved in a sexy, taunting grin. Which job? she thought. Which man? Instinctively she realised that it was one of those crossroads in life, a moment of snap decision when either path could be interesting but only one could be travelled. But which one? Josh was trouble with a huge T. He should still have been in hospital, but he’d obviously discharged himself with a whole catalogue of injuries, not least the fixator on his lower right leg, the cast on his right arm and the short haircut that indicated a head injury. Despite the sexy grin and the wicked twinkle in his eyes, she knew instinctively that he would be a difficult and opinionated patient.
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Xavier Giraud, on the other hand, with his dead wife and damaged children, was going to be very emotionally challenging and arguably needed her very much more. Not that Josh wouldn’t be a challenge, too, in his own way, although the challenge there would be outwitting him before he could hurt himself and keeping boredom at bay so he didn’t take stupid risks. But the girl – that poor, tragic, motherless little girl, and her brother, inevitably lacking attention because their father couldn’t do everything at once – and the father, struggling alone to keep all the threads of his family and work together. How long could he go on alone? He needed her. Josh needed her. And Jackie was eyeing her expectantly. Which way was she going to go…?
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Doctor's Orders by Bobby Hutchinson Fergus and Rose can't agree on anything. Can they work together long enough to help a little boy ? and possibly fall in love...? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| Chapter One "Corrigan did what?" Rose Rogers couldn't believe her ears. "Dr. Corrigan admitted the boy at six last night. A social worker brought him to Emergency, the E.R. doc called Corrigan ? he wrote the orders." The nurse in charge handed over the paperwork, and Rose scanned it quickly, swearing under her breath. She'd been in a terrific mood till now. Her son, Jeremy, was spending the month of July at a summer camp, so she had her condo all to herself. It was the Friday before a long weekend. Life was good. Until now. Rose scanned the chart. Dexter Barnes, aged 10, attention deficit disorder, no illness, no injury, close observation, continue meds routine, restricted to unit. Good luck. "Corrigan actually wrote good luck on here?" Fuming, she flung the chart down. "What exactly does he think he's doing admitting this boy on Peds?" The other nurse shrugged. "Dexter's too young for the psych unit. My guess is Corrigan didn't know what else to do with him. Apparently the kid burned down the garage at the foster home where he was staying, and the foster parents said they'd had enough. The social worker has no respite home for him, so she brought him to Emerg. He almost wrecked the place while he was down there. That kid is a demon, he's really bad. He flooded the bathroom and deleted a ton of files from the computer. And that's only the stuff we found out about. Lord only knows what else he got up to. He slept maybe three hours and spent the rest of the night getting into trouble." "He's not bad, he's A.D.D.," Rose flared. "That's what A.D.D. kids are like. I've got one ? I know." "Sorry, Rose." "Hey, no problem. I just get defensive is all." Defensive and disheartened. She felt her perfect morning heading south, and with it went tranquillity. She'd come to terms with her single state. She was resigned to the fact that at 30, her life was and would be her son and her work. Getting dumped by Jeremy's father had been tough, but having the second guy she'd fallen for also tell her he couldn't cope with her son had almost done her in. The fact that he was a doctor made it worse; she'd thought that he'd have more compassion for Jeremy, but she'd been wrong. They'd spent more time fighting over Jeremy than they'd spent making love. And now, 10 minutes into her shift, she was going to have to fight with Fergus Corrigan over this kid with A.D.D. Dexter simply could not stay on the unit over the long weekend. They were short-staffed; nobody wanted to come in on the long weekend. She had to protect the other kids, and Dexter himself. Rose sighed. "Where's Dexter now?" "He's in the playroom. We found him a computer game. The new aide, Kelly, is keeping an eye on him. Trouble is, with every bed full we can't spare someone just to baby-sit one boy."
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Rose nodded agreement. "I'll have a word with Corrigan the moment he arrives on rounds." The other nurse left, and Rose busied herself with paperwork. As nurse manager on Pediatrics, she figured she had about the best job at St. Joseph's Medical Center. She adored kids, she knew how to make even the sickest of them smile, she had good management skills, and she had a great staff. She got along famously with most of the docs, with the notable exception of Fergus Corrigan. New to Vancouver, he'd moved from some little town six months before, and from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him, Rose wished he'd never left wherever it was he came from. The hospital grapevine, trumpeting the news that the new pediatrician was 34 and single, hadn't prepared her for the fact that he was drop-dead handsome. When they first met, Rose took one look at his mass of unruly black curls and the mischievous sparkle in his royal-blue eyes, and she knew this was a man she needed to find a reason to dislike ? fast, before her traitorous heart turned to mush. He made the backs of her knees sweat. Usually proud of her composure, she became flustered around him, and that made her furious. Fortunately, her temper worked to her advantage. After Fergus overheard Rose talking with some other nurses about the alternative methods of treatment of A.D.D. that had been so successful with Jeremy, he lectured Rose on "proper" treatment of kids with A.D.D. Rose exploded. She let him know what she thought, that the traditional medical mode might work for some kids, but for others, there were nonmedical treatments that worked a whole lot better. They'd had a heated argument and hadn't spoken since. And they were about to have another fight. She saw him ambling toward the nursing station, took a deep breath, and drew herself up to her full height, which was still eight inches below the riotous curls at the crown of his head. "Dr. Corrigan, can I have a word with you?" He rubbed a hand through his hair, messing it even more. Why did the man always have to look as if he just got out of bed? Why did she always feel she wanted to join him there? "Absolutely, Rose. I'm all yours." That damned wide-open smile of his was so misleading. And so were his deep, slow voice and his choice of words. Get a grip, Rogers, she mentally chided herself. "Dexter Barnes absolutely cannot stay on this ward, Doctor." "But Rose, I thought you and your nurses could handle him. Aren't you an expert on A.D.D.?" His tone was teasing. The nerve of him. Rose struggled to control her temper. "Ms. Rogers? Oh, Ms. Rogers ?" Kelly, the new nursing aide, came running toward them. The woman's voice was trembling. "Ms. Rogers, that boy, Dexter Barnes ? I turned my back for a single minute and he disappeared. We've searched everywhere for him, but he's not on the ward. And Ms. Rogers? My name tag is gone. It was clipped to my pocket, but it's gone." Pediatrics was a locked ward. The only way in or out was to swipe the lock with the back of a name tag.
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Dexter was loose in the hospital. There were a million ways for him to create havoc. And two million ways for him to hurt himself. Rose felt the blood drain from her face. Chapter Two Fergus's temper flared. "Damn it, Rose, the reason I admitted Dexter was because I thought he'd be safe. I can't believe you've lost my patient." He scowled at her, but when he saw the way her face paled, his anger turned to sympathy. "Hey, don't look like that. You'll find him." Fergus sounded a lot more confident than he felt, but Rose needed reassurance. He'd never seen her look scared before. He enjoyed teasing her, even riling her up, but right now he just felt guilty for putting her in this predicament. She was sexy as hell, and she was also the most interesting woman he'd met since he moved to Vancouver. He'd never intended to cause her real trouble. He'd just run flat out of ideas about what to do with Dexter Barnes. "Kelly, call Security. There are so many things he can get into," Rose said. Her voice was trembling. "Sharps containers, med carts, monitoring equipment ? and what if he gets out of the hospital?" "He won't," Fergus assured her. "Security will block the exits. You've got a son with A.D.D., Rose. What would appeal to him?" She frowned. "Electronics. Food, maybe. Dexter's wearing pajamas ? somebody's sure to see him. I'm going to look." She raced off toward the door that led to the hallway. This was a nursing problem, Fergus reminded himself, admiring the way her rounded bottom twitched. Doctors didn't go looking for lost kids. It wasn't their job. But this little kid had nobody to care about him ? nobody except his doctor. He had to run to catch up with her. She was already at the end of the hall, in front of the elevators. All three were open, and empty. "Dexter," Fergus concluded. "He's jammed them with the stop buttons." "But where did he go?""Down the stairs," Fergus guessed. "There's the courtyard, and the play area ?" The doorway to the stairs burst open just as they reached it. A security guard, seriously overweight and scarlet in the face, panted, "Somebody's jammed the elevators. You the ones who lost the kid?" "Did you see him on the stairs? Did you check the play area?" Rose's voice, usually low and husky, squeaked into the upper registers. "Not there. We checked." His portable beeped. He listened and then announced, "They've got your kid up on seven, in Information Systems. They'll keep him until you get there." "Oh, thank God." Rose made it sound like a prayer, and Fergus silently seconded it. In the elevator, Rose scowled up at him, her dark brown eyes filled with sparks and the remnants of fear. "This could have been a tragedy, and it's all your fault, Doctor. That child doesn't belong in the hospital and you know it." "I know." Fergus felt humbled. "I just don't know what else to do with the boy."
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With Rose, he knew. He'd known the first time she argued with him. He loved the way her eyes crinkled and her chin tilted up when she got mad, but this was the first time he'd seen her vulnerable. He'd often thought of kissing away her anger. He couldn't resist the softness he now glimpsed underneath it. He'd never had the opportunity before; they were seldom alone. There was every possibility she'd charge him with sexual harassment, but he leaned over and kissed her anyway. *** The kiss went straight to her belly. Heat and desire struggled with common sense and what should have been outrage. Desire won. She was kissing him back when the elevator stopped. He winked and grinned down at her as the door opened, as if he knew he'd made her toes curl inside her comfortable shoes, and now she wanted to smack him. But Information Systems was behind a glass wall right across the corridor, and anyone could see them. Her damned knees were trembling. She tottered out and down the hall to the door, Fergus trailing behind her like all her resolutions about men. The place was full of men and computers, but it was a woman who stood beside the machine where the small wiry boy in blue pajamas sat tapping the keys. He glanced up and grinned, square face alight with pleasure when he spotted Fergus. "Hey, Doctor Fergus, I was just sendin' you an email." `"Hiya, Dexter." Fergus ruffled the boy's spiky brown hair. "What is it you want to tell me?" Rose caught the tenderness and very real affection in Fergus's voice, and it touched her. "I don't like it in the hospital, Doc. I heard the nurse say they're tryin' to send everybody home for the long weekend, so can I go home with you?" "We'll talk that over, Dexter." Fergus glanced at Rose. "This is my friend, Rose Rogers. I'll bet she can find us some cookies and maybe ice cream to go with them, right, Rose?" "Absolutely. But you'll both have to come back to Pediatrics with me."Dexter shook his head. "Nope. They got way better computers here." Fergus shot Rose a helpless look. This was familiar territory to her. Bribery didn't work with Jeremy either. Only the absolute truth and an appeal to intelligence and reason sufficed. "That's true, Dexter," she agreed. "The computers here are superior to the ones we have downstairs. But they don't allow kids up here." "That's right." The young woman standing beside them nodded agreement. "This is an adults-only zone, Dexter. Sorry." He thought it over. "Can I come back when I'm 16?" "You sure can." "Okay." He got up and took the hand that Fergus extended.
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In the elevator, he pushed the button for the third floor and then turned to Fergus. "Now let's talk about me going home with you, Doctor Fergus." Fergus looked uncomfortable. "Well, Dexter, I don't think that's a very good idea. See, I live by myself, and I've got no kids ?" But Rose had been thinking it over. Dexter himself had found the perfect solution. She purred, "Oh, but I think it's an excellent idea. We'll go back to the ward, Dexter, and I'll let you use our very best computer. It's the one the doctors use. And as soon as Doctor Fergus is done for the day, I'll bet he'll come and take you home with him for the weekend. Right, Doctor?" The stunned expression on Fergus's face made her want to giggle. But when Rose looked at Dexter, the transparent longing and hope in his eyes almost broke her heart. Chapter Three Fergus waited until Dexter was settled at the computer to tackle Rose. "Since when do doctors take their patients home with them?" "When they're little kids who've slipped through the cracks and haven't anywhere else to go." Her brown eyes were hot and accusing. "Would it kill you to spend a weekend making a 10-year-old happy?" She knew exactly how to push his buttons. He'd seen the way Dexter's square face split into an ecstatic grin when Rose promised that Fergus would take him home. He couldn't let the kid down now; she knew that. But a wicked, wonderful idea was taking form, and Fergus could hardly keep from grinning himself. "Okay, Rose, I'll do it, on one condition." She looked smug for an instant, and then wary. "What's that?" "You come, too. I know you're off duty, I checked the board." Her jaw dropped. "Are you nuts? I have plans for the weekend." "I did, too, before you rearranged them." He saw the mutinous expression on her face and held up a hand. "Fair's fair, Rose. You got me into this, you're the self-proclaimed expert on kids with A.D.D. I admit I don't have the foggiest clue how to deal with Dexter full-time. The idea scares me witless. I need your help if I'm gonna do this." He saw the uncertain glance she shot his way and the ripe color that flared in her cheeks and guessed what she was thinking. "Hey, nothing X-rated." He should be so lucky. "There's plenty of room. The house has three bedrooms. I'll do the cooking." His culinary skills pretty much ran to barbecue and takeout, but he could manage toast and eggs. She was wavering. She looked over at Dexter and then back at Fergus. "Please, Rose?" He didn't feel any guilt at begging or at having ulterior motives. The kiss in the elevator had unnerved him. It had also made him want more. He needed to get to know her better, and this was the perfect opportunity. "For Dexter's sake." The plea was shameful, but he had to use whatever was available.
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"Okay, Fergus, but only for Dexter's sake. Where do you live?" He felt like giving a victorious whoop, but he controlled himself and wrote down his address instead. "Bring your swimming suit ? there's a pool." *** It was five in the afternoon by the time Rose pulled into the driveway of a pretty bungalow on a quiet westside street. She'd always imagined Fergus in a high-rise bachelor suite, complete with Jacuzzi, black satin sheets, and nymphets. The house surprised her. Unless he had a gardener, he liked growing roses. The only thing that matched her preconceptions was the red BMW convertible in the open garage. She could hear a dog barking and water splashing. Carrying her small overnight bag, she made her way to the backyard. A huge shaggy wet mongrel came galumphing over, barking and wagging his tail, and she stooped to pat him, laughing when he shook water all over her. "Barney, you hopeless idiot, go away," Fergus said to the dog. "Rose, welcome." He held out a hand and she took it, ridiculously aware of his warm, hard palm against her soft skin. Fergus was wearing yellow boxer swim trunks and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, and she tried not to look at the mat of hair on his broad chest or the way his torso slimmed to narrow hips. He had long, well-shaped legs and huge bare feet. "I'm just firing up the barbecue. I hope you like burgers?" "Love them." A little of her initial nervousness faded. Maybe she could keep this on an impersonal level after all, if she concentrated hard. If she didn't let this handshake go on all night .She pulled her hand away as Dexter came racing over. He'd been swimming in the kidney-shaped pool, and he was vibrating with excitement. "Hey, Rose, Doc Fergus has this real cool computer, and a wide-screen TV, and a racing bike. And did ya see the BMW?" He whistled through his teeth. "That baby's a whole other story." The dog nudged him. "This is Barney ? he's a mixed breed. Watch this, Rose." He took off at high speed and did a cannonball into the deep end of the pool, and the dog mimicked him. Rose applauded. "Thank God you're here." There was a note of desperation in Fergus's quiet voice that made her smile. "Sounds like you're already a little frazzled, Doctor." He gave her a rueful grin. "More than a little. I took Dexter to the supermarket. You know those automatic change things? Well, apparently he's fascinated with money, and the clerk misunderstood when he scooped up the change from four different aisles. He's fast as mercury, and just as slippery. I convinced her not to call the manager, but I can't shop there again. And when we got home he hit the pool at a dead run, fully clothed. I did, too. I didn't know he could swim. Barney joined us, damned near drowned us both. And somehow in all that, I've lost the keys to the car, along with the garage door opener." It wasn't fair to laugh, but she couldn't help it. "Sounds like just another day with my son." "You have my respect and admiration." The words held not a trace of sarcasm. "Maybe you can explain how you do it. Right now, come with me and I'll show you your room." He took her bag and led the way. The bedroom was at the front of the house, bright and clean, but devoid of anything a woman might have added, like plants and curtains. He set her bag on the bed, and when he turned she saw by the vulnerable look on his face that he, too, was aware of the intimacy of the situation, the electricity that arced between them.
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"Rose." His voice was deep and gruff. "About that kiss today in the elevator." He was looking into her eyes. "What about it?" She could feel her face burning. She couldn't hold his gaze; it was too intense. She looked past him, out the uncurtained window. "I want ?" he began, but her cry of alarm interrupted what he'd been about to say. "Look." Fergus turned and looked out the window, and his jaw dropped at what he saw. Chapter Four "Good god, he's driving my car!" The horror in Fergus's voice echoed what Rose was feeling as she watched the red BMW inch slowly out of the driveway with Dexter at the wheel and Barney sitting tall in the passenger seat. "Dexter!" At a dead run, Fergus tore out of the house with Rose right behind him. He catapulted down the walk just as the car negotiated a shaky right turn into the street and began to accelerate in short, jerky bursts. "Dexter, brake, use the brake," Fergus bellowed as he raced along the road, trying to overtake the convertible. It was picking up speed at an alarming rate. Pounding along behind, Rose was praying hard. She knew it was only a matter of blocks before the quiet street became a main thoroughfare. Dexter couldn't possibly manage in traffic. Please, God, she prayed, don't let there be a terrible accident She had a stitch in her side, and just as she was forced to slow, she heard Fergus holler, "Dexter, slow down, you're going to hit that van ?" A resounding crash and the screech of grating metal sent Rose pelting down the sidewalk again. The BMW had smashed into a gray van parked at the curb. The front right fender and hood of the sports car were crumpled, the back of the van badly dented. By the time Rose reached the scene, Barney had already leaped out of the car and was running in circles, alternately barking and whining. Neighbors were pouring out of their houses. People spoke in excited voices, and the owner of the van was calling 911 on a cell phone, but all Rose could hear was Dexter sobbing. Terror brought a coppery taste to her mouth. Fergus was kneeling beside the open door of the car, conducting a quick and thorough examination of the frightened boy. "Is he ?" Rose wanted to help, but there was no room. "I think he's okay," Fergus said. His voice was cool and professional, his skilled hands quick and gentle, but Rose could see the tension in the line of his jaw, the tendons standing out in his neck. "I'm sorry, Doc Fergus, I'm sorry?" Dexter's face was ashen, and sobs made him hiccup. "I'm okay, honest, I don't hurt anywhere, I didn't hit my head. Check Barney, he fell off the seat." And Fergus was doing exactly that when the fire truck and the police arrived. *** For a period of time, controlled chaos reined.
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When the firemen were certain there were no injuries, they popped the hood of the BMW with a crowbar and disconnected the battery because of the faint chance of fire, a procedure that Fergus could barely stand to watch. After years of craving, he'd bought the sleek little car just three months before, and watching the tow truck drag it away gave him a sick feeling in his gut. Having the police grill him as to why Dexter had access to the keys was humiliating, and it was long past dusk by the time the two constables finally had all the proper forms completed. Rose had taken Dexter back to the house earlier, and by the time Fergus got there he was certain of two things. He wasn't a drinking man, but tonight he needed liquor. And he'd be grateful if he didn't have to lay eyes on Dexter, preferably ever again, but certainly not tonight. At first, he'd been terrified that the boy was injured, but when he realized Dexter was fine, fury had taken the place of concern. The kid had wrecked his car. Fergus wasn't certain he'd be able to control his temper if he had to confront Dexter now. The house was quiet and, at first glance, empty, but Rose's car was still parked in front, and he found her in the back yard, slumped in a lawn chair, head back, eyes closed. "Rose." He was still very angry, but there was comfort in having her there. She looked up at him, and in the soft lights from the pool he could see the uncertainty in her brown eyes. "I put Dexter to bed." Her voice was soft and weary. "The dog's sleeping with him. I fed them both, the barbecue's still hot if you're hungry." "Later. Would you like a drink?" She looked at him for a long moment before she nodded. "That would be good. A glass of the white wine you have in the fridge, please." He poured her wine and made himself a Scotch, a stiff one. Outside, he pulled a lawn chair close to hers and sank into it. She took a sip of her wine and gave him a sidelong glance. "Is there much damage to your car?" "It'll never be the same again." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Until today I could never understand anyone yelling at a kid, but so help me?" He shook his head and took a long slug of Scotch. "I know the feeling well. My son once disconnected all the wires in my ignition system. It cost the earth to have it fixed. I felt like spanking him." He was finally able to smile at her a little. "But you didn't." "Nope. I sat him down and told him that having ADD was no excuse for bad behavior, and I asked him what he thought a suitable punishment should be." Her dimples flashed, and somewhere deep inside Fergus, lust replaced anger. She was so damned sexy. "And?" "He said he'd wash the car for me for a year, but he also thought he should learn about ignition systems. The mechanic who fixed the car volunteered to show him in return for a few home cooked dinners." A stab of what could only be jealousy shot through him. His voice was gruff. "I never got around to asking if you're seeing anyone." She laughed. "You mean the mechanic? Her name was Amanda. As for the male species, the answer is no."
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Relief made him bold. He reached across and trapped her long fingered hand in his. "I'm glad." She didn't pull away. Instead she took another sip of the wine and her voice hardened. She turned and looked straight into his eyes, challenging him. "Would you choose to be around a kid like Dexter full time, Fergus? Because he and Jeremy are a lot alike." Chapter Five There had been moments in Fergus's life when a single decision determined his future. He'd gone into medicine instead of law. He'd chosen pediatrics over obstetrics. He'd agonized over the choices, but those decisions now seemed easy compared to the question Rose had just asked him. Could he be around a kid like Dexter full-time? Her hand was in his, and he readjusted his grip, so that her fingers and his were intertwined. "By myself, I know I couldn't do it," he admitted. "But if you were part of the package, Rose, I'd be willing to try. It would be tough, but I'd give it my best shot." He could tell from the surprise on her face that it wasn't the answer she'd expected, and he watched surprise turn to dismissal. "You'd put us on trial, and when the going got rough, you'd walk," she accused. "I've been through that before. I'm not about to try it again." She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let her. "Do you always decide the future on the basis of the past? Because that doesn't allow for anything new, Rose. Where's that courage I've always admired in you?" Her chin shot up. "Are you accusing me of being a coward?" "Not if you're willing to give me a chance. I'd like to try, Rose." He waited, but she didn't answer. Frustrated, he got up and pulled her to her feet. He drew her into his embrace, relieved when she didn't pull away. Sexual tension smoldered to life, and he heard the sudden catch in her breathing. "Remember that kiss in the elevator?" He tipped her chin up and lowered his head, taking his time. Her lips parted under his, and his heart gave a mighty thump when she leaned into him. *** His kiss warmed her for an instant, and then it burned. Raw need uncurled in the pit of her stomach. She'd been alone too long, but the old hurts carved deep into her heart didn't allow for trust, no matter how convincing his words. So forget about long term, a desperate voice inside her urged. Take the passion and run with it. Grab these few days and nights and enjoy them. There doesn't have to be a future. She slid her hands up into his thick, soft hair and gasped as his lips traveled from her mouth to her earlobe, along the line of her jaw, down the arch of her neck. His strong hands cupped her aching breasts, traced the curve of waist and hips, and the liquid heat in her belly grew incandescent in the instant before he stepped back.
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"I'm going to curse myself for every kind of a fool, Rose. I am already." The gravelly tension in his voice and the uneven cadence of his breathing told her what the action cost him. "I need to know what your answer is before I can take you to my bed. See, I'm not interested in just a one-night stand with you." Damn the man. How dare he turn the tables on her, demand a commitment she wasn't able to give? Every soft place in her body cried out for him, but she couldn't lie, not to him or to herself. Unable to speak, she shook her head, avoiding his eyes. Desolate, she turned toward the house and her empty bedroom. "Wait." He was beside her again, but he didn't touch her. "Sit down and talk to me, please. At least we can be friends." There was touching humility in his voice. "I'm not going to be able to sleep for a while, are you?" The idea was laughable. Every nerve ending was on fire. Still mute, she shook her head again. "I bought some of that herbal tea you drink at the hospital. I'll boil the kettle." The few moments he was gone gave her a chance to steady her breathing, but she was glad of the darkness when he handed her a steaming mug and sank into the chair next to hers. She was afraid her face would reveal the tangled, conflicting emotions she couldn't seem to contain or control. "Please tell me about your son." Why?" At work, when she'd talked about Jeremy, Fergus had been critical of the choices she'd made regarding medication. She couldn't get into another argument with him now. She felt emotionally bereft, as if she might burst into tears at the slightest provocation. "One single afternoon with Dexter has been a humbling experience for me." Fergus sighed. "I made sure he took his medication, but it's obvious that Ritalin doesn't always work the way I thought it did. I want to know about alternatives. Tell me what it's been like for you having a son with A.D.D. How did you first recognize the problem?" His honest interest calmed her, helped her to relax a little. "It took a long time to admit that Jeremy was different," she began. "As an infant, he didn't like to be held or cuddled. He was verbal at a really early age, talking in sentences by the time he was 18 months, but he was almost impossible to control. "By the time I'd cleaned the Play-Doh out of the vacuum hose, he'd have the goldfish in the bathroom sink seeing if they could swim in my bubble bath. When it came time for kindergarten, he couldn't adjust. He was labeled hyperactive and by grade one, diagnosed A.D.D. and put on Ritalin. It helped calm him down in school, but at home he was a holy terror. "His father left us that year." "Because of Jeremy?" Fergus's voice was filled with compassion. "Pretty much. Greg was a strict disciplinarian. We fought all the time about how to handle Jeremy. Kids with A.D.D. don't respond well to autocratic rules." "Does he see Jeremy at all?" Rose shook her head. "Never. It was actually easier after he left us, because I could try different approaches and get Jeremy involved in his own treatments. It's his body, he knows what works and what doesn't." She went on to describe the dietary supplements that had helped, and the alternative treatments such as biofeedback and neuromuscular integration that had resulted in remarkable behavioral changes.
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"He sounds like a smart kid. He's lucky to have you for a mother." "Thank you." She sighed and took a sip of her tea. It was gratifying to have Fergus compliment her. She told herself she was relieved now that he'd stopped them before things had gone any further. "So what's he gonna think when he grows up and realizes you gave up your life for him, Rose?" The words were like bullets aimed straight at her heart, and she gasped at their cruelty. In the same quiet, remorseless voice, Fergus went on, "How's Jeremy gonna feel when he figures out how you used him to keep yourself from taking a chance on love?" Chapter Six "How dare you accuse me of — of hiding behind my son?" Rose was furious, but most of all, she felt betrayed. She'd believed Fergus when he said he wanted to hear about Jeremy. She'd fallen into a cruel trap by opening up to him. "What gives you the right to psychoanalyze me? You —" her voice trembled, and the tears she'd been holding back filled her eyes and her throat. "You're not my doctor." "No, but I want to be your friend — and more, and I can't get past the walls you've built to protect yourself from me." In one fluid motion, he was out of his chair and beside hers. He tried to take her hand but she snatched it away, using her palms to swipe at the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Ahh, Rose, please don't cry." He pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his shorts and gave it to her. "I'm not deliberately trying to hurt you. God knows that's the last thing I want to do. But I see you doing exactly what I've done myself, and it's such a bloody waste of time and energy. And passion, Rose. It's one hell of a waste of passion." His tone was vehement, and through her tears she saw the desolation in his eyes. She wanted to get up and run far away from him. She would in just a moment, but first the pain so clearly etched on his face compelled her to hear what he was about to say. "I was married once." His tone was flat and matter-of-fact. "She was my high school sweetheart. I adored her. There'd never been anyone else for either of us. I was driving to work one morning — she was with me. There was an accident, a truck broadsided the car. She died at the scene. She was two months pregnant with our baby." He looked into Rose's eyes and held her gaze. "For years, I wouldn't let anyone get close to me, man or woman. It was lonely, but I swore I'd never get hurt that much again. I told myself I was being faithful to my wife's memory, but I was just using her as a shield." Rose knew about hurt, about loneliness. She'd filled the empty spaces in her life with her son and his urgent needs. What was so bad about that? Fergus had no children, he didn't know the first thing about parenting.... "It was a patient," he went on, "a little girl, who made me understand how wrong it is to use a loved one as an excuse to hide from emotional involvement. Her mother gave up her marriage, her career, and all but abandoned her other children to care for this kid. And one day the girl told me how miserable, how responsible, how mad, that made her feel. It was like a lightbulb going on, because I saw I'd been doing the same thing, just in a different fashion." Was that what she was doing? Against her will, Rose remembered Jeremy asking when she was going to find him a stepfather. She'd laughed and hugged him. All I need is another guy around here to take care of, she'd said. But what if her son was really saying he needed someone to help shoulder the burden of caring for her? Going off to camp, he'd asked repeatedly if she was going to be okay on her own. She'd been touched, but now this damned man was forcing her to see her son's concern another way. She didn't want to, but she couldn't ignore the truth.
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Fergus crouched beside her. He put one knee down on the grass, and leaned an elbow on the other. He had such good, strong legs. Well-shaped legs. Sexy legs. "I've dated a fair bit since I smartened up, lots of really nice women, but there's never been the chemistry that's between us." He was right about chemistry. Right now she yearned to touch his hair, to feel his arms around her. God help her, she even loved the way he smelled — a little sweaty, a lot Fergus. "I'd like a chance to get to know Jeremy. I'd like to court you, Rose. But if the answer's still no, I won't ask again." His smile was rueful. "A guy can only take so much rejection. So what's the verdict?" Fear nearly choked her, but longing made her tremble. He was offering everything she'd stopped dreaming was possible. She pressed a hand to her chest, in a spot that suddenly ached. He'd mentioned courage, but he couldn't know how much it took to even consider saying yes. "Holy cow!" Dexter's voice made them both jump. He was standing just outside the deck door, wearing green pajamas that he'd long since outgrown. "Doc Fergus, you askin' Rose to marry you? I saw a guy do that on TV, on his knees like that. Why do you hafta get down on your knees to do it?" As he got to his feet, Fergus let out a sound that was pure exasperation. "Dexter, what are you doing out of bed? It's almost midnight." "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. And then I heard you guys out here, so I thought I'd come and tell you I was really sorry about your car, Doc Fergus. Soon as I grow up and get rich, I'll buy you another one, I promise." "You'll have to do a lot better than that." Fergus's voice was stern, and Rose was suddenly on edge. Whatever happened now with Dexter would be a good indication of how Fergus would react to Jeremy. "That car was expensive, and what you did was irresponsible. Don't you think you should help come up with the money to repair it?" Rose shot Fergus an incredulous look. Dexter did, too. "Yeah, I guess, but I'm just a little kid." Dexter's voice trembled. "How could I ever get enough money to fix a car like that?" "You could work it off." Fergus still sounded stern. "Can you do a job, and do it properly, if you're shown how?" "I helped a guy build a fence once. I did okay. Except for painting — I spilled some." Rose wanted to smile, but she held back, wondering where Fergus was going with this. "There's a lot of work to be done on this house. The deck's rotting, the steps need rebuilding. I could use a helper." "Would I live here?" The longing in Dexter's voice hurt Rose's heart.
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"No, Dexter." Fergus's voice softened. "I'm a single guy, and you need a foster home with two parents. But wherever you are, I'll come and get you one day a week, every week, and you'll have to give me your solemn word that you'll follow orders." "I'll do it, Doc Fergus. I'll follow orders. It'll take me a long time to earn that much money, right?" Rose couldn't miss the excitement in Dexter's voice. "Years, probably. Go to bed now, and we'll discuss it in the morning." "Years." Dexter made it sound like a prayer. "Years." Rose heard him repeat it over and over as he headed for bed. Slowly, she got to her feet. She took one hesitant step before Fergus's arms reached out and enfolded her. She murmured, "Two of them are going to be a challenge. It's going to take patience, and humor, and perseverance —" "And love. Lots and lots of love." Fergus whispered, "Let's go to bed now, Rose. We'll discuss it in the morning." His kiss was a promise, and she returned it.
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Diamond Affairs by Isabel Sharpe There's a fortune hidden in the mansion of a mysterious millionaire ? and the housekeeper isn't quite who she claims to be, either.? Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| Chapter 1 Corey Rockford adjusted his sunglasses, pulled his red baseball cap down so the brim sat low over his eyes, and rang the front bell at Danworth. The enormous Georgian mansion just outside Princeton, New Jersey, had recently been purchased by his boyhood friend Aidan Conley ? the infamous paranoid delusional recluse billionaire. Rock, as he was known to his friends, and Aidan had grown up together. Now that he was back teaching English at the university, they were neighbors again. "May I help you, sir?" Reeves answered the door, nose so high in the air he couldn't see who was there. Reeves was a native Jersey guy who'd taken on the airs and accent of a proper English butler at his employer's request. "Hi, Reeves," Rock said. "It's me." The butler lowered his nose, caught sight of Rock under the hat, and relaxed. "Hey, how ya doin'? Come on in, the coast is clear. Boss is in rare form." Rock followed Reeves into the sumptuous hallway and up the curving staircase into the elaborately decorated study. Conley, however, was the room's masterpiece. He sat pitifully hunched in a wheelchair under a pink-and-blue flowered afghan. A bushy beard covered most of his face; his trademark oversize dark glasses rested crookedly on his nose; his hair stuck out in all directions. "Aidan Conley, as I live and breathe. How are you doing now so many years after the extremely wellreported horrible accident that left you with a mind-altering brain injury?" A mischievous smile erupted behind the beard. Aidan stood up out of the wheelchair and tossed the prissy afghan aside to reveal khakis and a dark green polo shirt identical to Rock's. "Much better now that you're here, Professor. Thanks for agreeing to a switch on such short notice." "I'm ahead of schedule on my latest book for a change, so I allowed myself a break." Rock shook the hand of his perfectly sane and healthy friend, who had devised this imaginative and effective method of keeping away false friends, fortune hunters, and paparazzi drawn by his looks, money, and celebrity aura. "Where's the escape to this time?" "A Norwegian cruise." Aidan tore off the wig, beard, and glasses, uncovering coloring and features similar to Rock's. "Escape this heat, take in a little scenery, good food, some history...and with any luck, a beautiful woman." "The usual." Rock beat back a twinge of envy. Unlike Aidan, he'd given up the chase. At age 32 as a respected author and professor, he focused on finding a woman to stimulate his mind, not just his testosterone. "Anything I should know while you're gone?" "You'll be interviewing new housekeepers." Aidan handed over pieces of his disguise. Rock eyed the wig and beard distastefully, painfully familiar with their hot, scratchy textures from the other times he'd stood in for Aidan. "The security cameras picked up some woman snooping around the property for the third time this month. If she shows up again you can pretend to be your own detective hero and spout poetry at her."
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"No problem." Rock smiled. His detective, Dirk, could handle sonnets and heavy weaponry with equal ease, making him appeal to both genders and making Rock something of a surprise sensation ? to him at least. "Anything I need to know in the land of venture capital?" "Not a thing. I'll be in touch and of course Reeves is briefed, bless him. I think I'd go genuinely crazy without his help in this charade, or yours for that matter." Aidan opened a massive walk-in closet and pulled out two suitcases. "Is your car still out front?" "Yes." Rock took off his baseball hat and jammed it on his friend's head. "Have a good time." "I damn well will." Aidan paused at the door and grinned. "Have fun being me." "Thanks, I won't." Rock headed resignedly for the wheelchair and pulled the odious wig over his head. "I never do." *** Elizabeth Montclair buttoned her navy suit, blissfully enjoying the air conditioning Conley had installed in her family's house. Mr. Conley might think of it as his, but she couldn't seem to. Her father's family had built this house in the 18th century, lived here for generations before Conley kicked them out and ruined her father, causing the heart attack that killed him. She wrinkled her nose. Okay, so Conley had bought the house well above market value so her parents could settle their substantial debt and buy a small home outside of Princeton. And okay, her father had been on the way to ruining himself when Conley pulled his company's capital out of her dad's final venture. And okay, maybe Dad was killing himself with drink and his penchant for high-everything food and smoking and all-night trips to gamble in Atlantic City. But the house. The study Conley had her cooling her heels in used to be Elizabeth's bedroom. She could see the place on the wooden sill where she'd carved the heart with her initials and Tom Cruise's, remember the hours spent curled up on the window seat reading stacks of romance novels she'd snuck by her parents. Right now, however, she was on a mission to become his housekeeper. She'd gained nothing but wasted time prowling the edge of the property, hoping she'd figure out how to get into the house without risking prosecution. A few weeks ago, she'd been clearing out her ailing mom's attic in anticipation of the horrible moment when she'd have to move her into a nursing home, and came across a diary kept by her great-great-grandmother, Lucinda Montclair. Among the yellowing pages filled with delicate looping writing was an entry Elizabeth had read so many times she'd memorized it. It was told to me today by my dear mother just before her death, that Montclair family heirlooms, including the Andias diamond, were hidden from the British in a secret room in the Montclair mansion by Augustus Montclair during the great American Revolution. I have not yet found such a room, but confess to great excitement amidst the grief. Her mom shrugged off the legend as romantic fancy ? but with a wistful gleam in her tired, sunken eyes. At that moment, Elizabeth determined that she owed it to her mother to find out if the jewels were there. If Elizabeth could get her hands on some serious treasure ? legally of course ? she could afford a full-time nurse for her mom and spare her the indignity of her final years in an institution. And maybe, Elizabeth could finally fulfill her lifelong dream of going to England, land of King Arthur, chivalry, and her beloved Shakespeare.
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"Mr. Conley will be in shortly, madame." The almost comically snobby butler popped his enormous nose-inthe-air into the room. "Thank you." She rose, clutching her résumé, not at all sure what to expect from the man so many people whispered about. Brilliant, promising, genius, loved by the media and populace alike, then the terrible mysterious accident that left his intelligence intact, but ruined his social skills, scarred his face and body, and made him a bitter, rambling recluse, driven only by the need to make money. Whatever she expected, the parody of a mad scientist rolling toward her in a wheelchair wasn't it. She had a terrible fear she was going to laugh, which turned into a sudden fierce twinge of sympathy. What a horrible comedown from the man she used to read about in the paper. "Mr. Conley, hello. I'm Elizabeth de Rocher." She used her mother's maiden name to avoid any sticky recollections of dealings with the Montclair family. "I've come about the housekeeper position." The eyes behind the crooked dark glasses stared at her, his mouth open, head going slowly up and down as if he were making a careful inspection of her body. She gritted her teeth. Men never seemed to be able to see past her breasts, no matter how sedately she dressed. "Uh, Mr. Conley?" "Excuse me." His voice was a raspy painful gasp that made her battle another surge of sympathy. He used to be a gifted athlete. Now even talking was an effort. "I was just admiring your necklace." Right. Elizabeth clutched the gold locket her father brought back from one of his trips to London ? the trips he kept promising to take her on and never did. "It's actually a book, a miniature volume of Shakespeare sonnets." "Ah, Shakespeare." One dark brow quirked up above his glasses. "'If I could write the beauty of your eyes/And in fresh numbers number all your graces,/The age to come would say, "This poet lies:/Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."' From sonnet number ?" "Seventeen," Elizabeth whispered. Never in a million years had she expected Mr. Ex-Playboy to be a devotee of her beloved Bill. "Have you been to Stratford-on-Avon? Seen his theater? I've always dreamed of going there. To stand on that ground where he must have stood and recite ?" Elizabeth snapped her mouth shut. What the heck was she doing? Telling a total stranger her innermost desires? "I'm sorry. You must want to interview me." "Oh, yes. I want to interview you, Elizabeth." Warmth rose up into her cheeks and ricocheted down through her body. Oh my goodness. Something about the way he said that made her?furious. She took the seat he indicated, trying not to stare at the hand that emerged from under his afghan to reach toward his desk. You could tell a lot about a man by his hands. Aidan was strong, graceful, clean, and?large. "So." His strong graceful clean large hand picked up a gold pen and pad. "What experience have you had as a housekeeper?" None. "Well, I grew up in a large house and I've cared for my mom for several ?" "No experience," he said as he wrote. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. She had to get this job. Her mom deserved a comfortable happy old age and Elizabeth could picture herself in England. Who knew? Maybe she could meet someone else who could quote Shakespeare sonnets off the top ?
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"You're an English teacher at Princeton Day School." Aidan folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose you plan to hold both jobs in the fall?" "Yes, sir." For some inexplicable reason, Elizabeth started getting flustered and fidgety under Aidan's unwavering silent stare. Even from behind the glasses she could feel its intensity. No wonder women had swarmed all over him before the accident. She could feel the beginnings of a swarming instinct in herself, and she wasn't remotely the swarming type. A discreet knock sounded at the door; the pompous butler came in and whispered something in his boss's ear. For a second Aidan Conley had his face turned to the side and Elizabeth got a glimpse of clear dark eyes and long dark lashes. She swallowed and set herself firmly. This was not the time to develop a weakness for wounded geeks. "Thank you, Reeves." He turned back to her, face once more shrouded behind the beard, glasses, and ridiculous frizzed-out hair. "Mr. Conley, I have my references ?" "No need for that." "What?" She'd been disqualified already? "If you'd just let me ?" "I said there's no need. You can go now." He backed up the wheelchair and gestured to the door of the room. "I'll expect you here by nine tomorrow." At the shocked look on her face he continued. "You're hired." Chapter 2 "What?" Elizabeth stared down at the absurd figure of chair-bound Aidan Conley, wondering if his brain really had been as damaged by the accident as the rumors had it. "I said, you're hired." He wheeled his chair over behind his desk and began sorting through his papers. "You can start tomorrow morning." "Don't you want to check my ?" "I've checked them." He glanced up. "They're perfect." Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. As far as she could tell, all he'd checked were her measurements. She could be glad to get the job this easily, considering high school English teachers didn't have a lot of training as housekeepers. She could grab the land-in-her-lap opportunity to check out the legend she uncovered and see if there really were heirlooms belonging to her family hidden in a secret room in this house, representing wealth she desperately needed to care for her ailing mom, and desperately wanted to fulfill her dream of going to England. But not if the land-in-her-lap opportunity extended to her lap landing in Aidan Conley's. "I'd like one thing clear, sir." "Yes?" He picked up a stack of papers and started sorting it into smaller piles. "I'll be a housekeeper here, nothing else."
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"Of course, what did you ?" He looked up from his work; his nicely shaped mouth spread into a wistful smile in the center of his overgrown beard. "Ah, Ms. de Rocher. You flatter me. Unfortunately, you don't need to worry on that score." "I?I don't?" Elizabeth braced herself, her outrage fading. Every feminine instinct told her she'd trodden somewhere she had no business treading and this was going to get ugly and embarrassing in about three seconds. One...two... "You see, the accident left me impotent." *** "You told her I was what?" Aidan Conley's voice crackled on the overseas line. Rock grinned, enjoying his friend's discomfort. Especially because Elizabeth had looked alluringly dewyeyed when Rock quoted her a Shakespeare sonnet, and it occurred to him he might be unwittingly setting up Aidan's next conquest ? with a woman Rock would like to know better himself. "I told her you had a little?levitation problem." "Why the hell did you tell her that?" "Because she thought I ? that is, you ? needed a female bed warmer. The woman has zero qualifications, aside from a great pair of?references, and I hired her on the spot." "You hired me breasts for a housekeeper?" "Reeves recognized her as the woman your cameras caught snooping around. This makes it easy to keep a close eye on her." Rock glanced at his watch, wondering if there were any circumstances under which it wouldn't be easy to keep a close eye on Elizabeth de Rocher. The woman had done more for his drooling idiot act than she had any right to know about. He had to remind himself over and over to be interested in her mind ? until she showed her passion for Shakespeare, shared her fantasy of going to England, and touched something deep in his academic soul. It might be simpler if he just lusted after her amazing body. "I better get dressed as the insane billionaire. She's due to arrive soon. Don't forget to come back. I can only stand playing social leper for so long." "Oh? Any reason having to do with a certain great pair of references? Maybe I'll come home early. I've found nothing but ice in these fjords so far." Rock felt that unfamiliar emotion again, jealousy at the thought of Aidan returning to his own identity with Elizabeth traipsing around his house with a brain full of sonnets, looking like the perfect fantasy combination of Playboy centerfold and schoolmarm innocence. "Suit yourself. I've got to go." He wandered over to the windows to see if her car had arrived. Not yet. He traced a small heart in the wooden sill with the initials E.M. plus T.C., carved no doubt by some overly romantic fool. Of course he wasn't far from behaving like one himself. Ms. de Rocher had gotten into his brain, no question. He recognized the usual signs, not that they were terribly hard to spot. There was the can't-stop-thinking-about-her sign, and the endless-sexual-fantasies sign, those he was used to. But then there was a gentler, more noble curiosity about her. What she was like; what she thought about; what she wanted from her life. And of course why she'd been so obviously trying to worm her way into Aidan Conley's mansion. He raised his arms and rested them against the window frame. So what was wrong with that? This kind of deeper interest was exactly what he'd decided to give up more shallow intimacies for. The quest for shared
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intellectual pursuits, the exchange of ideas and evolving personal philosophy, the chance for lifelong debate on the nature of man and his universe, the?the? Elizabeth's navy Mazda drove up the estate's long driveway and parked. Long legs emerged from the driver's side. Long legs wearing shorts. Then long honey-blond hair pulled back into a thick braid, then a torso with those fabulous?references in a sleeveless white gauzy scoop-necked thing that if he edged forward just a little, he might ? She snapped her head up as if she could read his dirty little mind. An instant before she spotted him he jumped back, appalled at his carelessness, appalled at how deeply those shallow hunting instincts were rooted. No more. He'd fight the good fight. Keep his thoughts trained on intellectual philosophical universetype debates and?so on. He heard Reeves open the front door, greet Elizabeth, and start her on the route upstairs. Rock flew across the room, pulled on the beard, wig, and glasses and fell into the wheelchair just as the knock sounded on the study door. "Come in." He wheeled himself behind the desk, steeling himself to be unaffected by his new housekeeper. "Ms. de Rocher reporting for duty, sir." Reeves opened his eyes wide with his back to her and mouthed words Rock couldn't decipher. Elizabeth brushed past him and came into the middle of the room, lighting it up with her freshness as if she'd turned on one of the Tiffany lamps. She glanced at Rock ? briefly, but enough to send a jolt of involuntary electricity through him ? then swept the room with a gaze that only returned to him after it had finished its errand. "Good morning, Elizabeth." He croaked out the words in his best unstable genius voice, stroked the fake beard, and tried not to think about how incredibly perfect she looked, and what a lift she'd given to his day?in more ways than one. "Looking for something?" "Oh, just curious." She gave another glance behind her then fastened her endlessly deep eyes on him. "Who was the man I saw standing at the window?" "Who was the man I saw standing at the window?" Elizabeth repeated the question since Aidan Conley had either gone into shock or off to sleep. She could see her reflection in the huge crooked dark glasses below the wild mop of stringy-looking hair and the out-ofcontrol beard. What would this guy look like with a haircut and a shave? "Oh, him?" Aidan's voice seemed even more croaky than usual. "You must have seen my?bodyguard, Corey Rockford ? Rock to his friends. He, uh, had to go." "Oh." She frowned. She'd grown up in this house. The only way to leave would have been past her. "He's staying on the third floor." Aidan's sudden dynamite smile took her completely aback. "You'll probably get to see a lot of him, Elizabeth. He's a great, great guy. A former track star. Those stairs would have been nothing to him. That's why he could take them so fast." "I see." Whatever. The only thing she hated more than cocky athletes was the way they treated her. She'd experienced it too often in high school and college, before she got smart. Hockey goalies requiring multiple slap shots, basketball stars committing too many personal fouls, tight ends trying to run it into her end zone.? Elizabeth finally vowed only to date men she could beat up. Except that she still had this fantasy of broad shoulders, powerful arms, masculinity enough to ?
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"Maybe he could take you to lunch today, to celebrate you coming to work for me." Elizabeth blinked, then shook her head. He was playing matchmaker for his bodyguard? "No thanks, sir. I'm sure I'll be too busy. Perhaps another time." "'Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,/He of tall building and of goodly pride:/Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,/The worst was this: my love was my decay.' Shakespeare, sonnet number ?" "Eighty." Elizabeth stopped breathing. One of her favorites, the song of a wretched soul afraid to lose his beloved to a better man. Could Aidan be trying to ? "Elizabeth." He said her name in that low husky tone he'd used yesterday, and that same shivery warmth swept over her. She could probably beat up Aidan Conley.? "Yes, sir?" She tried to remember her real reason for being here. It was not to fall for a guy who looked like Rip Van Winkle and was personal-hygiene challenged. Not to mention impotent. He rolled the wheelchair closer and she got a tiny whiff of a very, very nice aftershave before a strange musty odor that was probably unwashed hair took over. "Call me Aidan." "Yes, sir ? Aidan," she whispered. What the hell was the matter with her? This was taking geek love to new depths. "Good." He wheeled his chair back to the huge mahogany desk that stood where her four-poster eyelet canopy bed used to be. "Reeves can show you the ropes." She bowed her head demurely and marched out of the room to find Reeves. After the tour, she armed herself with cleaning tools and patted the measuring tape in her pocket. All she needed to do to find the secret room was measure the walls until she found one out of whack. The secret room had to be behind there. She smiled in satisfaction and started off to the front living room to begin her work. With the master confined to his study and the staff hard at work, she could find the jewels, get her mom the best, most luxurious medical care money could buy, and see about booking a trip to England, to immerse herself in the world of her beloved bard, all in a matter of days. As long as this Rock person kept to himself. *** Rock walked into the living room after following the thumps and bumps "his" new housekeeper was making, intent on ignoring his screaming primal attraction and enhancing the connection he'd already established with her, disguised as Aidan. Two steps into the room, he froze. Elizabeth. Bending over. Head stuck way into the fireplace. Facing away from him. Temptation herself, in jeans that fit like ? Stop. Think poetry. Think casual chat. Think anything but what he was thinking. "Did you lose something?" She gasped and jerked up. There was a dull thud as her skull made contact with the marble fireplace. Rock rushed forward and reached to guide her head out safely. Soft skin. Soft hair. Stop. "Are you okay? What were you doing in there?" "I'm fine. I wanted to see, uh, if the?chimney needed cleaning." She rubbed her head and looked at him expectantly. Rock took a deep breath. Okay. Here it was. His chance to dazzle her with intellect. "Uh?I'm Rock."
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"I'm Elizabeth." "I know." He stood there, feeling as tongue-tied and ridiculous as when his father provided a "lady escort" to initiate him when he was 16 and started him down an addictive highway he'd only recently managed to exit. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rock." She frowned and he realized he'd been staring. No. Gaping. Stop. "Was there something you wanted?" Inspiration hit suddenly. She was the woman Conley's security cameras had caught snooping on the property earlier in the month. He could try to find out why she'd been poking around Aidan's house, most recently with her head in the fireplace. "Are you from Princeton?" "I grew up here." Her lips tightened into a sad smile. "I live with my mom in Pennington now." "You go to the high school?" He examined a fingernail to make the questions seem casual and grinned when she nodded. "College?" "Princeton." "Impressive." He took a quick step forward, to unnerve her, the way his fictional detective hero, Dirk, unnerved his suspects, surprised when she took a step back and sent him a wary look. "So why become a housekeeper?" "I need the money. Why all the questions?" "Just curious." Time to back off; she was getting skittish. "So what do you think of our employer?" "He seems gentle. And kind." She blushed. "Not the monster the press makes him out to be." "Well, well. You seem quite taken with him." Terrific. He made her blush as an impotent shut-in and could barely get a smile out of her as himself. "He's a gentleman." A wistful look crept into her eyes. "He seems to know a lot of poetry. I majored in English at Princeton ? mostly Shakespeare." "I love Shakespeare, too." "You do." She eyed him doubtfully. He gulped. This was not going well. More quotes from the bard were out. A little too coincidental if the master of the house and his bodyguard could cough up sonnet lines at the drop of a hat. But what other poets' work did he know that well? To create that fabulous softening of her eyes and features, that dreamy look of a hungry soul? "'Cold in the earth ? and the deep snow piled above thee,/Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave.'" He cleared his throat. Judging from the ice forming on her face, that wasn't quite the romantic tone he wanted to set. What else, what else? "That was Brontë. How about Browning? 'I left thee last, a child at heart,/A woman scarce in years:/I come to thee, a solemn corpse?'" She looked at him as if he'd made an impolite body noise. Rock sighed and glanced around for something to bang his head on. Damn Aidan and his cooked-up invalid scheme. Damn himself for agreeing to trade places. Damn Elizabeth for putting him in the absurd position of being wildly jealous of himself. Elizabeth half turned away so her fabulous silhouette was silhouetted even more fabulously. He broke out in a sweat. She was incredible. He wanted her. He was losing it.
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"I'm sorry, Mr. Rock." She brandished a feather duster like a weapon. "I need to get back to my work." "Can I help?" "No." "Can I watch?" "No." "Can I press you up against the wall and kiss you until you're breathless?" He froze, horrified. The words had spilled automatically, out of frustrated carelessness, in habitual response to his desire and the bantering tone of their exchange. For one unbelievable second, her face flushed, her breath rushed in between parted lips, and her eyes melted into his. But just for that one unbelievable second. Then her face paled, her lips tightened, and her eyes froze up solid. "And you wonder why I think that man upstairs is such a gentleman." She shoved the feather duster in his hand and stalked out of the room, leaving him embarrassed, bewitched, ashamed, and definitely, definitely aroused. To hell with intellect. Any two people with similar interests could share that connection. He and Elizabeth already had, though she didn't know it yet. But for that one moment Elizabeth had responded to him purely physically. As a woman, not a Shakespearean goddess. Passion burned within her for things entirely of the body. And however much she might deny it, she wanted Rock to give them to her. Not Aidan. He grinned. Poor Elizabeth. All of a sudden Aidan wasn't going to be quite as charming as she was used to. No, indeed. And after giving her a few more chances to experience this response to him, Rock would try something new. He wasn't just going to talk about pressing her to the wall and kissing her breathless. He was going to do it. Chapter 4 South wall of the library ? 25 feet. Elizabeth snapped her tape measure shut. Three days into her search for her family heirloom and she was dead on her feet. The cleaning wasn't so bad, since the rooms were barely used by the mysterious new owner ? a far cry from the mess her family had left it in every night. Supervising the staff was a breeze, since the staff consisted of a cook, gardener, butler, and chauffeur, all very nice people who knew exactly what to do and when. But combining her duties with the real reason she was here ? to find the secret room holding her family's heirlooms without being caught by either the intriguing master of the house, Aidan Conley or that horrible snooping pain in her duster who kept popping up out of nowhere, Corey "Rock" Rockford ? all that was enough to wipe out a marathoner. So far, no luck. All the measurements of all the rooms meshed neatly, no discrepancies that would indicate a concealed space of any kind. She'd worked her way through the rooms on the first floor and up to the library here on the second floor. She'd have to be extra cautious on the third floor ? Rock's room was up there. She'd cleaned it once, not that it needed much. He definitely went against type for the cocky jock. She'd expected dirty underwear and crusty tissues, not neatly folded clothes and a bookmarked volume of the new translation of The Odyssey on his bedside table. Go figure.
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He was certainly attractive; she'd give him that. But that's all she'd give him. Well, and he seemed fairly intelligent. She could give him that, too. But that was it. Oh, and a kind of overly obvious charm, sure. He could have that. Major sex appeal, too, uh-huh. But ? Enough! She'd been seduced and abandoned by men like him too many times. Deep brown eyes that got inside you and made you feel like an undercooked egg; solid body that induced in you a thrilling combination of danger and safety; enough charisma to coax supreme court justices out of their latest opinion; a deep voice that could make you ? Someone coughed behind her. She whirled around, and blushing, hoped Aidan Conley wasn't a mind reader. "Hello, Elizabeth," he wheezed. "How is the job going?" "Fine. Fine." She nodded too many times and stopped her head. No question, the man affected her. Why she would find someone who was weird and smelly attractive she had no idea. Maybe because of his impotency problem, she knew he wasn't going to try to drag her off to his cave. Very refreshing. Maybe his tragic story intrigued her ? the gorgeous guy he used to be before the accident, who he must still be under all the trappings. Maybe it was just that fabulous aftershave, she couldn't tell, but she was never quite herself around him. Such an intelligent man. She admitted openly to lusting after his mind. In fact, he hadn't been around for the past few days and she was shocked to discover she missed their discussions. "Reeves has nothing but praise for your work." He raised his head and coughed loudly without covering his mouth. "And Rock tells me he's met you. A few times. He seemed totally charmed." Elizabeth's smile froze solid on her face. "I see." Aidan removed a finger that had been exploring places polite people don't. "What is?" Sex. "Why are you so interested in what I think of Rock?" she asked instead. "Because last night he was a mess over you." She put down her rag and turned back. "He was?" "I've never seen him like that?sort of like a wounded puppy." Aidan lifted one arm and gave its pit a long, apparently satisfying scratch. "Pretty pathetic, in fact." "Oh." A strange melty tenderness in the area of her heart made it possible for her to ignore this latest breach of etiquette. "I can't quite picture that." "Elizabeth." She braced herself against the weird thrill whenever he said her name, but it didn't seem to want to come this time. "I don't think this is just about sex appeal for him. " He rolled away, leaving her standing there with her mouth hanging wide open. Rock had real feelings for her? How on earth could he believe that after a couple of awkward conversations where he seemed to spend the entire time trying not to drool over her and failing? She shoved a traitorous warmth firmly back under an emotional rock where it belonged and rooted through her bag until she found her sketch of the house. She was not going to think about Rock anymore.
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So, he was sex personified, big deal. And a gifted author she'd admired passionately for years, so what? He'd turn out like all the others and then where would she be? "Twenty-five feet." She penciled in the measurement and frowned, all sexy and consuming nonthoughts of Rock suddenly replaced by an eerie excitement. Had she made a mistake? She calculated again. No mistake. Even allowing for the width of the fireplace in the inner wall, the back of the library should only measure 21 feet. Elizabeth fell into an overstuffed chair and stared at the sketch in her suddenly shaking hand. She'd found the secret room. Chapter 5 She'd found the secret room. Elizabeth jumped out of the striped overstuffed chair and paced the length of the library's inner wall. How many times had she been in this room as a girl never knowing she'd been so close to the Montclair family heirlooms. Or so they'd been described in her great-great-grandmother's diary. Including the Andias diamond. In Elizabeth's imagination, it was a jewel of about eight carats that would sell for enough money to keep her mom out of the nursing home by hiring a private nurse, buy them a nicer house in the heart of Princeton, and let Elizabeth visit England, to revel in her love of Shakespeare, any time she felt like it. So where to look? And how to do so and remain inconspicuous? How many times could she clean the library before someone started asking questions? Rock, the unbelievably sexy jock pig who turned out to be a professor and one of her favorite authors, had already been asking too many for her comfort. Aidan Conley, strange and mysterious master of the house, had just left the room in his wheelchair; he'd probably stay away for now anyway. She reached for and grabbed a book. In the movies, concealed doors were always activated by moving a book. But it would take her hours to check each one. Or?her eyes lit on a bust of Beethoven. In the Batman TV show, the Caped Crusader had always flipped a switch in a statue's head to gain access to the Batcave. Maybe she could start there. The marble of the bust was cool and smooth under her fingers. She shifted the statue, explored along its surface, checking for hinges or cracks or ? "Lucky Beethoven." Elizabeth stiffened and clenched her hands into fists. Rock always managed to have the worst timing. She unclenched her fists and forced herself to smile at him, wishing he didn't look quite so clean and strong and male and sexually available. Fifteen minutes ago she'd listened in disbelief as Aidan announced Rock had fallen for her, and under pressure she'd promised to give Rock a second chance. Deciding to uphold her part of the agreement she smiled her very best smile at him. If he was remotely worthwhile as a human being he'd prove right now that he could let a second go by without a come-on line. "I'm checking him for dust." "I think I might be dusty, too. Would you check me?" Her smile faded. Okay, that was enough of a second chance. She turned to the bookshelf, hoping her back would be stiff and discouraging enough to make him leave.
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To her horror he came up close behind her. Close enough that she could almost feel the heat from his body ? or at least close enough that she started imagining it pretty strongly. Why weren't gentle geeks ever this sexy and confident? "I'm sorry, Elizabeth." His voice was deep and sincere behind her. The warmth of his body became so vivid in her imagination that she had to steel herself to keep from leaning back into it. "The lines are just a habit. A stupid autopilot habit I'm trying to break. Born out of spending too much time with beautiful women who bore me to death. But you excite me. That is, your mind excites me." He sighed. "Okay, your body excites me too ? I'm only human." She turned around and put her hands on her hips, not surprised when he glanced down at her breasts. "My mind excites you?" He turned brown eyes that took her aback with their sincere intensity up to hers. This guy was good. He made David Jensen look like an amateur. David had proposed marriage, complete with diamond solitaire, during senior year in high school. He'd taken her virginity and then asked for his mother's ring back. His mother was alive and well and wondering where the heck her ring was. Of course the incident was partly Elizabeth's fault. If she wasn't such a romantic, wasn't so dying to believe in love at first sight with Mr. Macho Perfection? She shook off the memories. "As I recall we've had one or two brief conversations, which consisted primarily of me answering questions about my schooling and trying to fend you off. How boring were those women?" For one incredible second he looked trapped. Ha! She wouldn't have expected it to be this easy. Maybe now he'd leave her alone so she could continue her search. Leave her alone so she could stop wanting to find out if his body was as smooth and hard as it looked. She winced and censored her own thoughts. When would she ever stop lusting after macho pinups and settle down with the gentle soul who could make her happy? But gentle souls never quite seemed to push her over the edge into wanting forever after. "You like this room?" He backed off and ambled casually along the walls, running his hands along the shelves of books. She blinked. "Yes." "You planning to spend a lot of time here poking around?" He shot her a keen glance, measuring her reaction. Elizabeth stiffened. What was this? "I thought I could make myself useful in here. You know, cleaning the books, making sure they're in good shape. Even organizing them if Aidan?Mr. Conley wants me to." "Aidan?" He stopped in front of her, too close for comfort even a few paces away. "You really like this guy?" "I?well, I thought I did." Her tongue thickened impossibly and that strange tenderness invaded the region of her heart, but this time not for Aidan. "Are you really Daniel Alexander?" "Yes." Rock took a step toward her; she jumped back. His eyes narrowed. "What's the matter, do I make you nervous?" "A?little." But only enough that she had her back pressed against a shelf of books and was shaking in every muscle group. "I really love your books. You manage to work in so much character depth and?and wonderful literary references that give them ?" "Does Aidan make you nervous like this?" He took another step forward.
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Elizabeth shook her head, finding it suddenly difficult to take deep breaths. "I...understand you're also a professor. At the university. How ?" "Do you ever want him to kiss you?" "Look." She stopped for a gulp of air. Her voice didn't have even a quarter of the outrage she was supposed to be feeling. His body was massive and warm even without using her imagination. And his eyes were doing that undercooked egg thing to her insides. "I don't think this is appropriate." He bent forward until his mouth was only about an inch from hers. "Do you ever want me to kiss you, Elizabeth?" And then he was kissing her and the only sound of protest she managed to make was a sigh of longing, which wasn't at all an effective deterrent. Kissing Rock was heaven. Absolute, unadulterated heaven, if it was proper to refer to heaven when every sense was on fire with pagan lust. He tasted good, he felt good, he smelled ? Elizabeth opened her eyes, then narrowed them to furious slits. She broke off the kiss and tilted her head back. "Go to hell, Corey Rockford. Go directly to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect ?" "What the ?" She pushed him back with all her strength and caught a glimpse of the same glazed-with-passion shock that she was sure had been on her face a minute ago...until she smelled the tantalizing smell of Aidan Conley's aftershave and realized she'd been duped again. Aidan Conley and Corey "Rock" Rockford were the same man. Chapter 6 Go to hell? What in the world had happened to the warm, beautiful, passionate woman he had been kissing, Rock wondered as Elizabeth stormed out of the room. He'd been kissing Elizabeth because, unless he was getting signals from an alternate life-form, she'd desperately wanted him to. God knew he'd been desperate to from the second he first saw her. Then bang! He was outta there. But not the usual I've-come-to-my-senses or How-dare-you female outrage. She'd been furious. Livid. "Psst." Reeves's head poked around the door. He sighed and nodded to Reeves. "What is it?" "The master is home. Got in late last night. Apparently he had a miserable time, then caught some bug so he figured he'd be just as badly off back here." Rock's stomach sank. Great. The only way Elizabeth responded warmly to him was when he was disguised as Aidan's mad billionaire alter ego. And he doubted Aidan would go for the snorting and twitching routine Rock had adopted to make the invalid character less appealing. "He wants to see you, catch up on what's been going on." "Sure." Rock went to the study. "Hey, Aidan. Nice to see you back. You look like hell."
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Aidan rolled his eyes, still the kind that felled women with a single wink, even above dark circles. "I felt worse yesterday. What's been happening here?" Rock almost laughed. "Not much." "Reeves has a different story." Aidan lifted his eyebrows. "Have you found out what that housekeeper was snooping around for?" "Not yet." "You been?spending a lot of time in surveillance?" "She thinks I'm a pig." He jammed his hands in his pockets and started whistling, forgetting how well Aidan knew him. "Uh-oh." Aidan crossed his arms over his chest and gave Rock a penetrating stare. "You've got it bad, Professor." Rock spun around and went to the window. "It gets worse." "How much worse?" Rock pulled back the curtain, remembering how she'd looked coming out of the car that first day and how hard he'd fought his attraction. Irrational jealousy twisted inside him. "She's falling in love with you." "I haven't been here. She fell in love with you, you idiot." "No." He shook his head. "Your supposed tragedy, your lost health, your brilliant command of Shakespeare? I'm the dumb jock. What's worse, she rattles me so badly I behave like a dumb jock. Except when I'm you." "Oh, boy." Aidan wiped the smile off his face. "You've definitely gotten in deep." Rock nodded. Way deep. Kissing her had been like being reborn into something noble and powerful. Like Super Rockman, only painfully human and mortal and definitely vulnerable. His feelings for Elizabeth had nothing to do with his umpteenth time scoring and had everything to do with his first time falling in love. But he couldn't face any more duplicity. Even if she never forgave him, he had to tell her the why and wherefore of the disguise, that he and the Aidan she knew were the same person. It was the only way if he wanted any shot at a real and forever kind of relationship with her. He grinned weakly. "Aidan, old buddy, it's true confession time." With any luck, he'd emerge with his pride and his body parts still intact ? and have a chance to explore something deep and real with the woman who'd invaded his heart. *** Elizabeth paced back and forth on the carpet in the first-floor salon, wondering how long before she wore a threadbare path. The arrogant jerk. Playing with her emotions, making her first want him as a brilliant helpless invalid and then as a sexy, virile?side of beef. What fun this all must have been for him. Gee, Elizabeth, Rock is such a nice guy. You should really drop your pants next time you see him.
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Grrrrr. For all the defenses she'd erected around herself, the males of the species had found a new and inventive way around them. Elizabeth Montclair wanted revenge and she wanted it bad. Which left her muttering over and over the phrase evil plotters and crafty planners, including Dr. Seuss's Grinch, had been using for centuries: But how? She wanted to trap Rock into confessing that he'd been masquerading as Aidan Conley. Make the stupid disguise patently obvious, so he'd know he could fool some of the women some of the time, maybe even most of the women most of the time, but not all of them all the time. And not this one ever again. She pictured him in his chair, under that stupid afghan, pretending to be ill, mad, impotent.? Perfect! She had the perfect revenge. She undid her braid and shook her hair out into loose waves. Next, the shirt buttons were undone. Tie the shirttails in a loose easy-to-slip midriff-baring half-hitch under her breasts. Cuff the shorts way up to expose maximum leg. And the final touch ? The vacuum cleaner. Ten minutes later, she knocked on the door to the study. "Yes." The feeble voice came through the door and she smiled a vicious triumphant smile. For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;/Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. "I'd like to come in and clean, sir?" She kept her voice honey sweet to hide the venom trying to come through. "Come in." She licked her lips to make them moist, stuck them out for the pouty sexpot look, took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and sauntered in. "Mind if I suck your dust?" A gasp came out from behind the fake beard that would have alarmed her if she hadn't known he was in perfect health. She bit her lip to stop her grin. The son of a you-know-what had it coming. He'd probably even forget to scratch. She bent over in best Playboy bunny style to plug in the vacuum, very aware he'd have an excellent view of anything he might care to see, which, judging by the faint strangled gurgle coming from the chair behind her, was everything. She turned the motor on and began vacuuming in slow passes, making sure her body undulated sensually with every stroke. Take that! She pushed the vacuum closer to his chair, vacuuming more vigorously so the shirttails gradually loosened and flapped open, exposing her lacy bra. Now for the final attack. She put the dusting attachment on the end of the hose. "Excuse me." She leaned across his desk and played the vacuum over the dark mahogany, making sure her breasts were at his eye level. At the triumphant crowning moment, she'd sweep the afghan off his lap to expose the hoped-for lack of impotence, then rip the disguise off to expose his mortification. One?two?three?. Sweep. Ha! There it was. A regular Washington Monument.
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Rip.? Elizabeth screamed. The vacuum cleaner motor died behind her. Silence. An awful, awful chilling silence. "Well, well, Elizabeth." She turned around and encountered Rock, vacuum cord dangling from his fingers, hands on his hips. He glanced between her and the Washington Monument. "Looks like you've got yourself between a Rock and a hard place." "You?you?" She sputtered furiously. It had been him under the beard before. She'd smelled that same aftershave. Somehow he'd figured out she was going to try and trap him and pulled another switch. The stranger in the wheelchair snatched back the afghan to cover himself. "Rock, I didn't touch her." Elizabeth grabbed her shirttails together and gestured at the handsome man in the wheelchair. The real Aidan Conley. She'd know that face anywhere. "You're not scarred, not sick. Not ?" She gestured in the vague direction of his crotch. "It's a miracle! How can I ever thank you?" Aidan stood up and grabbed her hand, pumping it enthusiastically. Then his eyes narrowed. "Hey, I know you. You're a Montclair. I bought this house from your family." "I?I?" She stood in helpless mortification wondering what else could go wrong. "How interesting." Rock came forward, grabbed her hand and pulled her not very gently to the door. "Excuse us, won't you, Aidan?" He dragged her out of the room, into the library, turned and grabbed her shoulders to make her look at him. "Mind telling me what's going on Ms. Montclair-not-de Rocher and snoop extraordinaire?" "Maybe you should start, Mr. Just-pretend-I'm-Aidan-Conley." She didn't know whether to feel furious or hurt or ashamed, so she felt all three. "I don't know how you pulled that fast one, but the guy behind the beard before today was you." "I had good reasons." He pressed her back against the bookshelves. "More honest than yours, I bet." "I wouldn't count on it." She pushed her head back to gain some badly needed distance from his overwhelming presence. Her head hit and pressed against a hard rounded protuberance. In a surreal slowmotion moment, the entire bookcase shifted behind them. "What the ?" "Oh my gosh!" Elizabeth gripped Rock's arms, head spinning from a strange combination of lingering vengeful bloodlust, intense sexual attraction, and triumph. The secret room did exist.? Chapter 7 "What the hell is this?" Rock stared behind Elizabeth's head at the bookcase, which had somehow moved to one side exposing what looked like a secret corridor.
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"The bookcase is on some kind of track. The whole thing slides to the left." Elizabeth crouched to the ground, examining the machinery, her heart beating furiously as she realized she was about to find the Montclair family heirlooms. Rich! She was going to be rich! Once she got the door open all the way, that is. Thank goodness Rock had been so furious with her for trying to seduce him while he was disguised as the impotent Aidan, who, it turned out, wasn't Rock and clearly wasn't impotent. If all that weirdness hadn't transpired, then it might have taken her weeks to find the secret door. Luckily her head had found it all by itself when she cracked it on the release knob. Ouch. "Let me help." Rock braced his shoulder against the door and pushed. With a groaning creak, the bookcase swung back and slid slowly to the left. When there was a passage large enough to slip through, Elizabeth stopped him. "Wide enough; I'm going in. I still can't believe I found it." "Found what?" Rock caught her arm, turned her to face him, eyebrows drawn into a dark frown. "You know what's back there." She nodded. Lies didn't come easily to her, and she was sick of the ones she'd had to tell him already. "Yes, I know." "This whole housekeeper charade was a ploy to get into Aidan's house." "Hold the stone throwing." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Your whole Shakespearean wheelchair charade was a ploy to get into my pants." "No offense, but if I just wanted to get into pants I would have picked pants without the deadbolt, chain, burglar alarm, and Do Not Enter sign." "I'm sure you ?" "Pants that don't lie their way into someone's house and try to steal ?" He gestured back into the dark opening behind her. "? whatever." "I'm not stealing. I would have told Aid ? Mr. Conley." She sighed, suddenly tired of her deceptions. "What's back there are Montclair family heirlooms, which have belonged to my family for centuries. If Mr. Conley wants to stop me, I probably haven't a leg to stand on legally. But I would hope he'd ?" "If they're from your family you should have them." Aidan came into the room, tall, handsome, and so much like Rock they could have been brothers. He winked. "And call me Aidan. Any woman who can cure impotence with a vacuum is okay by me." Rock's grip tightened painfully on Elizabeth's arm. "Did something happen back there before I came in?" Aidan let out an exasperated sigh. "I was kidding. Let her go look for her heirlooms." Elizabeth sent Aidan a grateful look and dared a pleading glance at Rock. He let go grudgingly, obviously relieved no erotic vacuuming had gone on, but still not particularly pleased with her, which pretty much mirrored her own state of mind about him. She turned toward the dark opening in the library wall and took a deep breath. By finding these jewels she could restore part of the family fortune and make sure her mom spent her remaining years in comfort, plus
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she'd finally be able to visit England to explore her passion for the country and its long-ago famous inhabitants. She'd deal with her feelings for Rock later. When she had several weeks to try to figure them all out. She made her way into the short dusty passage, wondering if they should have pushed the door farther open for more light. Rock's big body followed closely behind her, enticing and intimate in the tiny shadowy space. Okay, she'd deal with most of her feelings for him later. The passage opened out into a tiny rough room, with a table, chair, and?a wooden trunk in the middle of the floor. She stopped at the sight of it, overcome by emotion. Rock whistled softly. "Open it, Elizabeth." She knelt next to the trunk, caressed its worn top, undid the leather straps and opened it. Inside was a handstitched, carefully folded quilt. She lifted it and froze when she saw what lay underneath. Looms. A stack of them. Probably six. One with a geometric pattern woven into the threads. "What the heck is that?" Rock's voice put into sound what she was feeling. Disbelief, incredulity, and potential misery. Elizabeth lifted the loom with the geometric pattern; it was wooden and strangely heavy with letters on the side in graceful script: Ayre Co., Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. "Oh my God." She stared at the weaving and realized with horrifying clarity that the pattern was made of diamonds. "I think I'm going to be sick." Rock moved forward. She shook her head, crushed by disappointment. "Figuratively, I mean." "What is it, a joke?" "No. A misunderstanding." She held the clunky object up and gave a miserable chuckle, her dreams of helping her mom sloshing gently down the commode along with her trip. "Behold. The Montclair family Ayre looms." Her words, dead and muffled in the tiny room, were immediately followed by the grating sound of the bookcase door sliding shut, leaving them trapped in total blackness.? Chapter 8 Elizabeth screamed as the door to the secret room slid shut behind them. Being trapped in a tiny pitch-dark room with Rock, the most desirable man on the planet, was...was...well, actually, it had definite possibilities. But first she had to trust him completely, make sure he wasn't just after a quick roll on the dusty planks. She was tired of having her heart trashed by macho jerks, and he could trash it like no one had ever tr ? "Aidan." Rock had jumped to his feet and judging by the booming sounds, was pounding on the door into the library that had just slid shut. "This isn't funny. Open the damn door." "Not until you guys quit fighting and make up." Aidan's voice came faintly through the door, muffled, but unmistakably amused. "I'll give you two hours."
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"For God's sake, Aidan, what are we going to do in here for ?" There was a long pause. "Okay, see you in two." He came back along the passage toward her; she stepped away, nervous and excited, until her back touched cool plaster. "Elizabeth." He drew out the syllables, the way he said her name when he was pretending to be Aidan. The way that got her juices...juicing. "Where are you?" "I'm..." She cleared her throat. "I'm here." His firm step sounded as though it was coming toward her, making one plank creak, another groan. "This is perfect." "Why?" Her voice came out breathless and shivery. "Because you can't see me. Because you can't judge me by anything but what I say...." He took another step. "And how you feel." "Oh." More breathlessness. More shivers. "How do you feel?" She stopped breathing, started shaking in earnest. Could she summon the nerve to tell him? He was, after all, the gentle man in the wheelchair with whom she had had so many fabulous discussions, and who had so touched her heart; he was also the brilliant author whose words she'd admired for so many years; and he was the strong, sexy guy who made it hard for her to see or think straight. Putting the parts of the puzzle together made him the perfect combination of everything she'd always wanted. "Elizabeth?" There it was again, Eliiizzzabeth. Even without the sexy voice he affected her more deeply than any man ever had. But she couldn't quite bring herself to trust that this wasn't all about her body. That buried in that fine mind opposite her might be merely the primal male urge to make it with anything sporting a D-cup. So she had a simple choice. Either she could protect herself by staying on the sidelines, or risk heartbreak by jumping in, as she'd done too many times in her naive youth. Possibly this time she could find real joy. Possibly this time she could find real love. But... "I'm sorry about the deception, Elizabeth, about not coming clean that I was disguised as Aidan. But you responded so much better to him." His voice came out low and husky in the darkness; he cleared his throat. "I hated being around you as myself and feeling like the loser." She took a deep breath. Honesty was a good place to start. "I didn't make it easy for you. I didn't even give you a chance until I discovered who you were underneath the pickup lines and the attitude. That's why I was so attracted to Aidan ? at least until the twitching started." He chuckled and came closer so she could sense his warmth in the darkness, hear his breath, steady but fast. She tensed, waited for his hands to be all over her. Instead he kissed her on the mouth without putting his hands on her, over and over, gentle soft kisses that gradually increased in intensity and pressure until she was clinging to him, weak and gasping, overcome by desire so strong she felt she could reasonably die of it. He broke away over her murmur of protest and she sensed he'd knelt in front of her. "Rock?"
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"I'm spreading the quilt." She stood in the darkness, trembling. He was taking it for granted they'd make love. Was that what she wanted? Her body certainly did. But her mind? Her heart? Could she take this kind of risk? "There." She cocked her head in the darkness. A shuffling sound now, as if he were still on his knees and ? Strong arms clasped her waist, brought her gently down to the floor to lie with him on the colonial quilt. He slid his warm hands under her shirt, unhooked her bra and stroked her back, stroked up and over her shoulders, then down to her breasts. "Oh, Elizabeth..." She stiffened, as much as she told herself not to. But this was when men, even the most honorable, wellintentioned ones, lost their minds and used words like "fabulous hooters." "I love you." She gasped, a joyous surprised sound, and then she melted. Absolutely melted. Melted against him, melted out of her clothes, melted out of her mind. All she knew was that he loved her, and his hands on her body were making her feel not like an exhibit at Ripley's Believe It or Not, but powerful and glorious and invincibly female. Then he was naked, too, rolling on top of her and they joined in an unbearable agony of pleasure, moving together to make the darkness seem like their own version of heaven. With a rush of emotion and sensation like nothing she'd ever felt, she climaxed and said his name at the same time he whispered hers. And when it was over and they came down together, she knew he'd been making love to her, not just to her body, and she almost exploded with the joy of it. "I love you, too, Rock." He rolled to one side and pulled her against him, kissed her with passion and tenderness, then drew a gentle finger across her lips. "Let me treat you to England, Elizabeth. I'm renting a flat in London for August. I'll show you everything. We can live Shakespeare together." Elizabeth bit her lip, her sudden rush of euphoria just as suddenly deflated under a picture of reality. He was the fabulously successful author and scholar; she was a struggling teacher with a mom to care for. He loved her, yes, but wanted to take her to England, pay her plane ticket, her rent, her meals ? and all her giving would take place in the bedroom. She squeezed her eyes shut against tears of frustration. If only the family heirlooms had amounted to more than a joke, she wouldn't have to feel so...kept. Maybe it was just her Montclair pride, maybe lingering paranoia, but she needed to feel more equal. "Rock, thank you. But ? I wouldn't feel right having you pay my way. And I can't leave my mom." "I can arrange care for her. She wouldn't want you to stay home on her account. And money is totally meaningless." "Except when you don't have any." She found his face in the darkness and sadly traced the firm line of his jaw. "I'm sorry, Rock. I'd love to go to England with you someday, but it would have to be on my own ?" A sudden pounding jolted her. "Time's up. What's the verdict?" Aidan's voice came through the wall in the library. Rock got up and pulled his shirt out from under her body. "We're coming."
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"Oh, sorry. I'll wait until you're done." Elizabeth rolled her eyes, sat up, rehooked her bra and fumbled around for her jeans and panties, feeling elated and despondent all at once. The man of her dreams loved her. She had every right to be floating on air. But the facts of their relationship wouldn't leave her alone. Those damn jewels were supposed to be her salvation. "Let me know when you're ready," Rock whispered. She found her clothes and pulled them on, though she wasn't entirely sure everything had gone on quite right. "Okay." "We're ready," Rock called. She heard his footsteps going toward the door, then a bang and a crunch, a curse, and a funny scattering sound, like pebbles being dropped on a hard floor. At the same time the door swung open, light poured into the room and made Elizabeth blink. "What was that noise?" She squinted down at the floor. The Ayre loom with the diamond pattern on it lay broken on the floor from the pressure of Rock's weight. And scattered around it in a glistening array, were ? "Diamonds." Elizabeth gasped the word out, barely able to comprehend what had happened. Her mom's medical care. Her family honor. Her trip to England. Rock. "Oh my god, diamonds." Rock whistled, crouched down, and held up a pear-cut stone the size of a prune. "Would you look at this?" "The Andias." She knelt next to him and stared in awe at the sheer size of the stone. Rock picked up her left hand and balanced the huge diamond on her fourth finger. "What do you think, would it catch on things?" A heady charge of electricity swept over her. Was he ? Did he mean ? "Rock?" "It certainly is." He grinned, then his eyes grew serious, tender, and slightly vulnerable. "Would you like to marry me in England next summer, Elizabeth? Would you like to use some of the trip next month to plan the wedding, now that you have your diamond heirlooms?" "Oh. Yes. Yes." Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She did have her heirlooms ? and something much more important. "'For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart/Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.'" She sniffed. "Sonnet number ?" "One hundred thirty-one." He drew her to him and kissed her hard and long with increasing passion, pressing her body close against his obviously rearoused one. "Mmm. Want to go back into hiding, Mrs. Shakespeare?" She laughed and pulled back to send him a teasing glare. "I thought you loved me for my mind." He smiled, his eyes promising the happy ever after she'd never quite been able to stop believing in. "I love you for you, Elizabeth. Just for you." "Now that ?" she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, unable to believe how much happiness had come into her life in such a short time and how sure she was it would last "? is sheer poetry."
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DESIGNER SEX by Heather MacAllister Prim music teacher Erin Young is fed up with sharing a bedroom wall with her playboy neighbor Mick Armitage. So when his noisy "entertaining" keeps her awake one too many times, she gives him an ultimatum: pipe down or move out! Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE A rhythmic pounding woke Erin Young. At first she thought she had the mother of all headaches, but when her sleep-fogged brain cleared, she realized the pounding was coming from the wall behind her head — the common wall she shared with her neighbor, Mick Armitage. The common bedroom wall. Great. Micky the Louse was still in action. Burrowing under her covers, Erin kept her eyes closed as she listened to the amplified bass of Ravel's Bolero — yes, the music from the movie 10, clichéd though it was. Erin once actually liked the driving rhythm and relentlessly building dynamics…until Mick started to use it to camouflage his bedroom activities after an embarrassing confrontation Erin didn't want to think about. Erin didn't want to think about him over there having bedroom activities, either. She only wanted to sleep, but hours ago, the music had started and then hadn't stopped. Enough. Intending to kick the wall, Erin yanked down the covers, opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness. With a gasp she grabbed for her clock. Eight forty-five? What had happened to her alarm? Normally, Saturday mornings were for sleeping in, but not this Saturday. This Saturday, she had to be on the phone by seven-thirty when the Jones Hall ticket office opened. Antonio Zamora, the Antonio Zamora, the violinist recently named one of America's sexiest men, was coming to Houston in November. Ever since he'd made that list, tickets to his concerts sold out instantly. Just thinking of being in the same room —okay, auditorium — with Zamora gave her a little thrill. Looking at the shirtless picture of him in People magazine gave her a bigger one. Still, as a fellow musician, Erin counted herself as a true fan and not one lured by his bulging biceps or the smoldering looks he gave the camera as he caressed his violin. Squinting at the concert advertisement in the paper, Erin grabbed the telephone and punched in the number for the ticket office. Busy. She'd expected the line to be busy, but she'd expected to be trying to get through much earlier. She wanted a ticket. Just one. At any price. She was even raiding her dining furniture fund — that's how badly she wanted a ticket. And because of Mick Armitage and his late-night entertaining, she might not get it. She hit Redial. Still busy. She hung up and hit Redial again. And again. She got into a rhythm, but when she realized that she was hitting Redial in time to the beat from the apartment next door, she stopped. Okay. There was no need to panic yet. She was going to dress, then try again from the portable phone in the kitchen. Erin was tempted to scramble into jeans and a sweatshirt, but mindful of the violin students who'd begin arriving at ten o'clock, she dressed for a six-hour day of giving private lessons in case she got through to the ticket office and was put on hold.
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During the week, Erin taught middle school music and supplemented her salary by teaching privately on Saturdays and Wednesday evenings. Though she loved her job, there were times when she craved real adult music amid an audience she didn't have to take on rest room breaks and lecture on concert manners. Erin wanted a civilized evening in civilized company, something her uncivilized neighbor probably wouldn't understand. Mick Armitage bore a strong resemblance to her hormone-saturated students. Unfortunately, he also bore a strong resemblance to Antonio Zamora. When she'd first seen Mick, she'd stared, momentarily disoriented, thinking that her fantasy man had appeared on her doorstep. Could she help it if she had the tiniest, er, maybe not so tiny crush on Antonio Zamora? Wasn't it reasonable that some of that crush would transfer to her Antonio-look-alike neighbor? Completely understandable that he might stand in for Antonio in a fantasy or two? Say, the one where they were selected to be on the local show Single Design, and she finally got her elegant dining nook and as a bonus got to soundproof his bedroom? Yeah, like that was going to happen. She'd entered — several times — dutifully writing a different one-page essay each week right up until she'd heard the first chorus of Mick's nightly amorous serenades. And then he'd had the gall to proposition her before his sheets had cooled — the very next day — the next morning — a Sunday when they both found themselves walking back from the corner convenience store with a copy of the newspaper. "It looks as though I'm going to be staying in Houston awhile," Mick had said. "Usually I'm sent from place to place and never get to know my neighbors. Now that I've got the chance, how about going to breakfast with me?" Erin had been so embarrassed at having overheard him the night before, she couldn't even look him in the eye. Then, she was aghast that he'd asked her to breakfast. Even though his overnight bed partner must have left — and why hadn't he fed her breakfast? — Erin just…just couldn't. And because she was embarrassed, she was sharper than she'd intended in turning him down. She'd said, "No." Not "No, thank you" but "No, and I can't believe you have the nerve to ask me." Then she'd done a little riff on the general faithlessness of men and pretty much alienated him. Not that she cared. Even if he did look like Antonio Zamora. Erin was tempted to scramble into jeans and a sweatshirt, but mindful of the violin students who'd begin arriving at ten o'clock, she dressed for a six-hour day of giving private lessons in case she got through to the ticket office and was put on hold. During the week, Erin taught middle school music and supplemented her salary by teaching privately on Saturdays and Wednesday evenings. Though she loved her job, there were times when she craved real adult music amid an audience she didn't have to take on rest room breaks and lecture on concert manners. Erin wanted a civilized evening in civilized company, something her uncivilized neighbor probably wouldn't understand. Mick Armitage bore a strong resemblance to her hormone-saturated students. Unfortunately, he also bore a strong resemblance to Antonio Zamora. When she'd first seen Mick, she'd stared, momentarily disoriented, thinking that her fantasy man had appeared on her doorstep. Could she help it if she had the tiniest, er, maybe not so tiny crush on Antonio Zamora? Wasn't it reasonable that some of that crush would transfer to her Antonio-look-alike neighbor? Completely understandable that he might stand in for Antonio in a fantasy or two? Say, the one where they
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were selected to be on the local show Single Design, and she finally got her elegant dining nook and as a bonus got to soundproof his bedroom? Yeah, like that was going to happen. She'd entered — several times — dutifully writing a different one-page essay each week right up until she'd heard the first chorus of Mick's nightly amorous serenades. And then he'd had the gall to proposition her before his sheets had cooled — the very next day — the next morning — a Sunday when they both found themselves walking back from the corner convenience store with a copy of the newspaper. "It looks as though I'm going to be staying in Houston awhile," Mick had said. "Usually I'm sent from place to place and never get to know my neighbors. Now that I've got the chance, how about going to breakfast with me?" Erin had been so embarrassed at having overheard him the night before, she couldn't even look him in the eye. Then, she was aghast that he'd asked her to breakfast. Even though his overnight bed partner must have left — and why hadn't he fed her breakfast? — Erin just…just couldn't. And because she was embarrassed, she was sharper than she'd intended in turning him down. She'd said, "No." Not "No, thank you" but "No, and I can't believe you have the nerve to ask me." Then she'd done a little riff on the general faithlessness of men and pretty much alienated him. Not that she cared. Even if he did look like Antonio Zamora. Antonio Zamora. Erin closed her eyes and visualized his flowing black hair, full lips and heavy-lidded gaze. His face was on the cover of every CD he'd ever made. Erin knew because she owned every CD he'd ever made. She was going to try to get him to autograph one after the concert. She imagined waiting by the stage door, invited to be there because she was a fellow violinist…their eyes would meet…he'd agree to come to her school and play for her students…he'd ask her to ditch her students and come away with him… The phone was answered by a recording informing her that all ticket agents were currently helping other patrons, and Erin was put on hold. For the next forty-seven minutes, the phone was glued to Erin's ear as she cooked and ate breakfast, assembled a music stand and plugged in her electric keyboard. All the while Bolero pulsed in the background. She was making her bed when a voice sounded in her ear. "Thank you for calling —" "Yes, I want a ticket for the Antonio —" "— the Jones Hall ticket office." A recording. "The Antonio Zamora concert has sold out." "No!" Erin shrieked. "To be placed on a waiting list, press one." After doing so and laboriously keying in her telephone number, the recorded voice returned with, "Thank you. You are number one…hundred…twenty-three." "I can't be number one hundred and twenty-three!" Aware that she was yelling at a recording, Erin disconnected and sank onto her bed, staring at the wall separating her bedroom from Mick's. She wasn't going to the concert and it was all his fault. Bolero finished with a crash and there was a moment of silence. Then it began again.
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Erin's fist connected with the wall. Then her foot connected with the wall. Then she realized that connecting her foot and fist with Mick Armitage would be softer. Driven by a rage she hadn't known she was capable of, Erin stormed out of her apartment, took a giant step over the potted geranium between their two front entrances and beat on Mick's door. CHAPTER TWO An insistent pounding woke Mick Armitage. "Open the door! I know you're in there!" Bad movie dialogue. He squinted at his pitiful nineteen-inch TV where a fuchsia-and-green blob in the corner tinted the Saturday morning cartoons. More pounding — and probably some kicking, too — shook his door. He moved, then groaned at the pain in his neck — the actual pain from falling asleep on the rented couch, not the metaphorical pain in the neck pounding on his door. "Open — this — door!" It had to be the stuck-up old-maid music teacher from next door, Erin. What had her panties in a twist now? He swung his legs down, and the insurance loss ratio stats he'd been reviewing when he'd fallen asleep slithered to the floor. Mick bent to pick up the papers at the same time he became aware of music from his bedroom. Bolero. He'd left it playing all night. Swearing under his breath — he wasn't about to give Ms. Prune Face the satisfaction of hearing him — he jogged into his bedroom and turned off the CD player, grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants off the clothes hamper and hopped toward the door as he drew them on over his boxers. What was he going to say to her? He couldn't think of their last meeting without wincing. He'd had no idea she'd overheard him with Trina as they'd made a pathetic attempt to salvage their long-distance relationship before calling it quits. He'd run into Erin the next morning and had made a neighborly overture because, frankly, his feelings were a little raw and he'd wanted the distraction. It's not as if he'd meant for her to hear him. And was she discreet about letting him know she'd heard him? Did she make a joke out of it? No, she'd scolded him. Scolded. Him. So they'd made a deal. Whenever he planned a little bedroom action, he was supposed to play Bolero to warn her and mask any noise. Embarrassingly, there hadn't been any reason to play Bolero, and so he just stuck in the CD sometimes out of pride. And last night he'd fallen asleep on the couch. While working. On a Friday night. Pathetic. "Mick!" Major pounding on the door. Kicking, he thought. He yanked open the door before she managed to do serious damage. Erin gasped and stumbled forward. He reached out to keep her from barreling into his bare chest, but she jerked away with a disgusted expression, as though he'd actually wanted to touch her…to hold her….
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Mick stared down at her. She stared back, her eyes wide with…with something, and he didn't think it was disgust. Maybe he'd been a little hasty to help her avoid body contact. Erin breathed hard, her cheeks flushed, and she actually looked as though she had some life in her without wearing that snooty expression she adopted whenever they made eye contact. In fact, she was looking pretty damn good at this precise moment. She could look pretty damn good all the time if she tried, which she didn't. Not that he wanted her to. She wouldn't even have to try very hard. Just quit clipping her hair back. She had curly hair, and lots of it, waiting to spring loose and bounce all around her shoulders. She had that pale surface-calm-hiding-a-passionate-nature-beneath thing going, which he found extremely seductive. Erin expended her passion on her music. Man, did she expend it on her music. Every evening just about the time he'd like to sit down to a quiet dinner and watch the news, she started in with the violin. Passionately. Repetitively. Loudly. And, okay, he found it a little seductive. So, yeah, he may have once had a passing interest in her, but she'd frozen him out and there was no sign of a thaw. "Do you want to come in?" he asked. Erin inhaled sharply. "No, you — you — oversexed cretin." Yeah, she was here about the music. "Is this where I say, 'Ooo. I love it when you talk dirty'?" She looked as though she wanted to take a swing at him but instead wrapped her arms across her chest and gave him a tight-jawed glare. "You've been playing Bolero for hours. You couldn't possibly have needed it that long." "Oh, yes, I —" "It kept me awake half the night and then I overslept and missed my chance for Antonio Zamora tickets!"VWho the hell was Antonio Zamora? It didn't matter. She was really upset. "I'm sorry." "Sorry isn't good enough!" "Sorry's all I've got." "Well…well, get something else!" A beat went by. "I'll let you yell at me some more. You can even come inside." "No. I'm sure you're —" her gaze flicked down his chest "— busy." All she needed was a church hat and some white gloves. He raised an arm and leaned against the doorjamb. "I can make time for you, sugar." She took a step back as her nostrils flared. The nostril flaring was great, except that he really was in the wrong here. But he'd apologized already. What more did she want?
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"This year, I only wanted two things," she answered. "Dining furniture and to hear Antonio Zamora in concert. It doesn't look like the dining furniture is going to happen, but I could live with that because I knew that I was going to get to hear Antonio Zamora. But thanks to you and your…your — why isn't there a male word for slutty? — activities, I'm not." "Are you more upset about the noise or the sex?" "I'm upset that you know I can hear you and you still…make noise." "I can hear you, too, you know," he retorted. "There's nothing to hear in my bedroom." "I know. My condolences." He smirked. She inhaled sharply and stepped back over the geranium pot. Mick stepped outside. "Did it ever occur to you that I might like to work in peace during the early evening? That I might find it more convenient to avoid phone calls and interruptions in the quiet of my own home? That I might not like violin music?" She tilted her chin. "It has occurred to me that you might lack the sophistication to appreciate violin music." "Oh, I appreciate it. When it's played well. But you can't call that caterwauling I hear music." Erin blinked and Mick had the impression that she hadn't realized he could hear her. What? Did she think sound waves only traveled in one direction? "I will do my best to see that the sounds of students discovering the joy of music do not disturb you." "I wasn't talking about the students." He instantly regretted his jibe. How did she manage to bring out this side of him? She narrowed her eyes. "Clearly, the only way to resolve this situation is for one of us to move. I was here first, so I suggest you check with the manager for available vacancies on the other side of the complex, and we'll never have to hear each other again." CHAPTER THREE If Mick had been wearing a shirt, Erin would have been the victor in their latest encounter. But he hadn't been wearing a shirt and when he'd raised his arm and leaned against the doorjamb, he could have been Antonio Zamora posing for his "sexiest man" picture. In fact, when faced with so much male in the flesh, as it were, Erin couldn't remember exactly what Antonio Zamora looked like, which was another thing to be angry about and which reminded her that because of Mick, she'd lost her chance to see Antonio Zamora in any kind of flesh…er, see him perform. Hear him perform. With his violin. Anyway, she'd been…flustered was all she was prepared to admit. She'd wanted to make Mick feel bad or express remorse. Considerably more than the lukewarm apology he'd offered. Obviously, he'd just climbed out of bed. He had no shame. None.
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And she was serious about him changing apartments — preferably moving out of the complex, but she'd settle for out of hearing range and hope for out of sight, as well. The sight of Mick shirtless had had more of an effect on her than she liked to admit, even to herself. At that moment, the phone rang. It must be a lesson cancellation. Damn it! Look at that. Mick Armitage was making her swear. But honestly, why couldn't her students give her more notice? Erin snatched up the phone and tried to answer civilly. "Erin Young? I'd about given up on getting through. Your line has been busy all morning. This is Sonia, the producer of Single Design." All the air left Erin's lungs. "Congratulations! You and your single neighbor…let's see…Mick Armitage have been selected to be on our show." Yes! No. Talk about an immediate high and low. Erin knew she was supposed to react. "Wow!" Fabulous. She sounded simultaneously inane and fake. "Since it's been several months since you applied, I need to verify that you both still reside in the West Village Oakes apartments?" "Yes," Erin said faintly. The call couldn't have come five minutes earlier? Before she'd yelled at Mick? "Both still single?" "Oh, yes." She said this with more firmness. Sonia laughed. "Let's hope we can do something about that." Erin's eyes swiveled to her empty dining nook. An elegant space for romantic dinners was within her grasp. Sonia continued. "As you know, the format of our show is to make your space more date-friendly. In fact — are you two dating?" Was that a requirement? "Not exactly…" "Ahhhhh, but I can tell you'd like to be. That is so great! We'll use that tension." Rather than correct her, Erin closed her eyes and visualized dining furniture. Then she visualized soundproofing Mick's bedroom. "We're punching up the show's concept and by the time your segment airs the show will probably be called Designer Sex." "What?" "Don't worry. It's just marketing. Now, I need to verify a few details and set up a time when the designers can meet with you both and see the spaces. Also, you'll need to have the apartment manager sign the consentand-release form." "Not a problem." And it wasn't. Her problem was right next door.
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After hanging up the phone, Erin closed her eyes. Oh, yes, the fates were amusing themselves today. She might as well get it over with. Yes, she was going to ask, and possibly grovel to, Mick. And she was going to do it right now, before her first student arrived. She knocked on his door. After several seconds, she rang the doorbell. There was a noise and then silence. She knew, just knew that he was looking out the peephole. She wiped all traces of anger from her face and smiled. She would have tried for a smidgen of chagrin but didn't think she could manage it. "Yes?" he asked from behind the closed door. Erin maintained her smile. "Could I talk to you for a minute?" "I already apologized." "Well, yes, but I may have overreacted." Visualize the dining nook. It'll be worth it. "Don't worry about it." "Look, would you please just open the door?" Not a good start to groveling. "This is about something else." The door swung open. A wet-haired Mick stared at her, his face partially covered in shaving cream. One hand remained on the doorknob, the other casually, very casually — one might say loosely — bunched the edges of a towel at his waist. Didn't this guy ever wear clothes? Erin couldn't help noticing that those edges sure didn't overlap much. In fact, they overlapped less now than when he'd first opened the door. "I see I've come at a bad time." He gave her a lazy half smile. "Is there ever a bad time?" She tried to ignore him and his one-track mind. "Here's the thing." Her gaze dipped, marking the location of those towel edges. They were slipping, as was her concentration. She was going to have to talk fast. "You know those decorator shows? The ones where the neighbors decorate each other's homes?" "Why would they do that?" "That's the show's premise. They provide the decorators and supplies and everybody works really hard all night long and then they get to see what they've done to each other's house." "They don't know what's going on ahead of time?" "No. That's the fun part." "If you say so. What's the point here?" "Well…" She laughed. Actually more of a cackle. Not a good sound. "Houston has a local show like that. Single Design?" Mick shook his head. "I, umm, got picked." "And you're worried that the noise will bother me? Don't. Give me a heads-up and I'll spot you a sleepless night. I owe you one." He started to close the door.
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"Wait." This was harder than she thought. She drew a deep breath and blurted out, "I need a neighbor to exchange with and it has to be a single male because it's about making the places date-friendly and you're the only single male I know around here and I really want a dining set and since you're the reason I can't see Antonio Zamora, I thought you might agree to be on the show with me." She ran out of air. Mick's expression didn't change. He just stared at her with those big, brown Antonio Zamora eyes. In fact, now that he looked at her, she noticed that his eyes were a touch deeper, his gaze more sensual… Quickly she cut off that train of thought. Time for some serious groveling. She swallowed. "Please?" That was all she could manage. His gaze roamed her face, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes. "Okay," he said. "Okay as in okay, you'll do it?" Erin gave him a wary look. "That was too easy. What's the catch?" That's what Mick wondered. Why was he agreeing so easily? He had to admit their verbal sparring was the most fun he'd had in weeks — maybe even months. And here she was offering him the opportunity to square things and spend time with her all at once. A winner all the way around, as far as he was concerned. "Careful, Erin. You've made the sale. All you have to do is close." "What do you mean?" "Tell me what I have to do and where and when to do it. This afternoon after you finish teaching…" that is, torturing every dog within miles "…would be fine." "Are you always this…accommodating?" "When it'll get me what I want." She blinked. He smiled. "I — I'll check with the producer. She has to come and make sure our apartments can accommodate a camera crew." "Gotcha. I'll stop by after I get back and see what's up. We can get something to eat afterward." Mick shut the door. And that was how to close a deal. Mick grinned to himself. He wondered when Erin would realize that they had a Saturday night date. CHAPTER FOUR Mick had spent the day inspecting sites where his insurance company, Community State, had paid damage claims, making sure completed repairs met the company's standards. Houston was a bear. The place flooded every time there was a heavy dew, and when a tropical storm lingered, the flooding was widespread and devastating. He'd been here nearly a year but he usually spent only a few weeks in one place before moving on to the next disaster. And that had pretty much been his life up until now.
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The first time he'd seen his next-door neighbor, he'd been smitten by her good looks and intrigued by her slightly aloof demeanor. But he'd pegged Erin as a put-down-roots kind of woman, and therefore off-limits. However, that didn't stop him from thinking about her and now that he'd been offered a promotion that would mean staying in Houston, he'd been thinking of approaching her again. The stupid Bolero incident had nixed that idea, but this decorating show thing was a gift. Finally, a chance to get to know Erin better — and demonstrate that he was not a womanizing cad! Mick dropped off his satchel and gave his apartment a once-over. He stacked some papers, checked for stray socks under the couch, put a glass in the dishwasher, and then knocked on Erin's door. The undisguised relief on her face when she opened the door got to him a little, but he put on his I'm-agood-guy face — the one he used to reassure traumatized homeowners — and stepped inside. "Relax. I said I'd be here." She gripped his arm as though she thought he was going to run. "Mick, this is Sonia, the producer from Single Design. Only they're calling it Designer Sex now." "Cool." He could get into this. Erin swallowed. "And these guys are the camera crew." Mick shook Sonia's hand and nodded to a man and a woman who were measuring and taking light readings. "Helloooo, Mick," Sonia purred, looking him up and down. She turned to Erin as she sat on the sofa. "Oh, yes." Erin looked as though she was willing herself not to blush. She failed. Mick widened his smile, but Erin determinedly avoided his eyes. Patting the overstuffed sofa beside her, Sonia said, "Join us, Mick. I was just explaining to Erin what we're about, and what we're about is making your spaces more attractive to the opposite sex." As he glanced around Erin's apartment, Mick maintained a purposely bland expression, but he felt as though he'd stepped into an old lady's parlor. Flowered sofa, prissy lamp and a side table with an honest-to-god doily. Inadequate TV, pretty decent sound system, not surprising since she was a musician, and shelves crowded with junky teacher gifts — mugs, drawings, treble clef vases, violin vases, plastic busts of some long-haired musician. The whole decor made him feel as though he had to keep his arms and legs to himself and sip tea from a china cup. They'd have to gut the place. Sonia brought out some papers. "To avoid misunderstandings, we'll ask you to read and sign these agreements. Basically, whatever the designers say goes. There is an addendum for exclusions, say, if a table is a valuable antique and you wouldn't want it painted, you'd list it on this page." Erin immediately turned to the page and started writing. Sonia frowned. "However, if you have a lot of exclusions, then perhaps this show isn't for you." Erin's head snapped up. "My violin." "Do give us some credit." "I've seen your show." Mick snickered, then laughed. Erin didn't look his way, but he saw the corner of her mouth turn up.
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"We'd like to see your apartment now," Sonia said to him. She did not smile. "There's not much to see." *** Mick was right. There wasn't much to see. The floor plan of his apartment was the mirror image of Erin's, but the decor had a hotel-room feel to it. No knickknacks on the shelves, just black binders with labels like "Harris County Building Code" and "Comparative Data — Fire Resistant Roofing." And, yes, he had two chairs and a dining table, but Erin couldn't tell much about it since it was covered with more black binders, a mountain of papers and a laptop computer. It looked so…lonely. She would have thought one of the women who paraded through here would have softened it up, but there wasn't so much as a pillow. "What do you do?" Sonia asked him. "I supervise insurance claims adjusters. I go from disaster to disaster and analyze the claims we pay. That's why everything here is rented." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Except the bed. That's my one indulgence. There's nothing like a quality mattress." "And you need one since it gets such a workout," Erin said before she thought better of it. "Hmm." Sonia gave Mick one of those man-eater looks. "I think we should take a look at this bed." Erin didn't want to see the bed, but she trudged after Mick and Sonia. Okay, yes, she did want to see it. No, no, it was best that she…that was it? That was the infamous bed? For all the action this room had seen, Erin was expecting lots of leopard print and a mirrored ceiling, but there was only a plain mattress and box spring, unadorned except for a navy blue covering and two pillows. The spread didn't reach all the way to the floor so the box spring was visible. A nightstand, in the same brown faux wood color of the rest of his furniture, held papers and books and an ugly lamp. In the bottom was a CD player and the infamous Bolero jewel case. Erin averted her eyes. No wonder women didn't stick around. Maybe it looked better in the dark. "No props." Sonia looked him up and down. "So you're a man who likes to let talent speak for itself." Erin left the room. She was not going to witness another of Mick's conquests, though apparently, he didn't have to do anything — Sonia was practically throwing herself at him. Even Erin couldn't stop thinking about him — but she told herself that was only because he looked like Antonio Zamora. Wasn't it? Of course it was. Erin heard throaty laughter as Mick and Sonia followed her out of the bedroom. "I'm going to leave these papers with you both and as soon as you've had a chance to look them over and sign them, we'll set up a time for our designers to meet with you." At the door, Sonia smiled at Mick. "Take your time, but don't wait too long." And nobody thought she was talking about the papers. Naturally, Mick stood there grinning after her. Men were so predictable. Mick was so predictable. Especially when he turned to Erin and without changing his expression asked, "Your place or mine?" "Don't get any ideas just because Sonia —" "To go over the papers." Mick's grin faded and was replaced by a weary resigned expression. "Do you want to stay here or go back to your place?"
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Erin felt horrible. He was doing her a favor. A huge favor, when she thought about it. And she missed the grin. "I'm sorry. I was just…" "Jealous?" The grin was back. Maybe she hadn't missed it after all. "In your dreams." He didn't respond, at least not with words. He just looked at her, his eyes knowing. Erin's heart beat a sprightly little allegro. You are jealous! she thought. She was jealous of Sonia, a woman she didn't even know. How awful. How embarrassing. How pointless. Mick hadn't encouraged Sonia — just a little gentle flirting and not much of that. And what if he had encouraged her? Erin had absolutely no claim on him. She felt less cheered by that thought than she'd expected. "How about my place?" she offered. Then he'd see how much she needed that dining set. Mick brightened. "What do you say we order a pizza?" "Pizza sounds great." And it did. CHAPTER FIVE They went next door and while Erin ordered pizza, Mick prowled around her apartment, mainly checking out her CD collection. He looked very out of place. Very large. Very masculine. Kind of bull-in-a-china-shoppish. Maybe it was because she wasn't used to seeing males over the age of thirteen. Once they hit high school, all but a few of her male students felt the violin lessons detracted from their newly testosterone-soaked bodies. Antonio Zamora had plenty of testosterone. Maybe even as much as Mick. She finished ordering the pizza, but kept the phone against her ear and watched him. A late-day beard shadowed a decidedly square jaw and when he squatted down to read the titles on the lower shelves, his slacks outlined some serious thighs. Wow. There was a lot to be said for puberty. When she hung up the phone, Mick held up an Antonio Zamora CD. "This is the guy you were trying to get tickets for, right?" Erin nodded. Mick stared at the picture, then held it next to his face. "He kinda looks like me. Whadya think?" Heart-stoppingly like you. Erin swallowed dryly, then squinted. "Hmmm… You've both got dark hair, but I'm just not seeing it." Liar, liar, pants on fire. Mick shrugged and replaced the CD. Erin would have suggested he put the CD on to play, but music had been a sore point between them up till now. Focus. She needed to focus. And not on Mick. "We'll have to sit at the kitchen bar to eat since…" She trailed off with a gesture toward the dining nook. Then, because Mick was a man and might need more than a subtle hint, she added, "It's obvious that I need a dining set. It'll be interesting to see what the designer chooses. And, by the way, I really have no preference as to style. Except I don't like contemporary — you know the chrome and glass and leather thing."
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"Like my apartment." "Well, you said your stuff was rented." "Yeah, but I chose it. I like clean lines." Ugh. "It looks so…harsh." "This place doesn't look harsh." Erin smiled at the compliment until he looked around and added, "I feel like I'm inside a bowl of potpourri looking out." She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. No bickering. Making him irritated would be counterproductive. Her silence must have registered. He shot a look over his shoulder — he was fingering her music knickknacks, many of them gifts from students. "I meant that in a good way." "No, you didn't." Erin sank onto her sofa and tossed the TV show papers onto the coffee table. "When I got my own place, I wanted antiques. I grew up with two older brothers, and all our furniture looked like the den in a fraternity house. I wanted something grown-up. Something more feminine." "And may I say 'mission accomplished.'" Mick joined her, flopping onto the sofa, flinging his arm across the back and taking up way too much space, the way guys did. "And you don't mean that in a good way." "It's intimidating. I'm afraid I'll break something." "Like you're intimidated by anything." She picked up the papers and turned to the exclusion page. "These aren't real antiques, anyway. I couldn't afford them." "That's a relief." Mick gave an exaggerated sigh and propped his feet on the table. "Hey!" He laughed and lowered his feet. "I don't know anything about decorating, but I gotta tell you, the doilies are so outta here." "My grandmother made them." Erin sighed. "I hoped they'd make these cheapo thrift pieces look like real antiques." "If you don't watch it, you're going to look like a real antique." "What do you mean by that?" Mick gestured to the lamp table. "Dead flowers." "Dried flowers," she corrected. "Whatever." He indicated the wall behind her. "And you've got a bunch of pictures of dead dudes staring at us."
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"Those are composers!" "They're girlie-man lithographs on yellowed paper — not even in color." Erin had thought they looked very elegant and in keeping with her antique theme. But now that she saw them through Mick's eyes, she realized how lackluster and old-ladyish they were. "Don't worry. We're going to jazz the place up." Erin felt the first stirrings of alarm. Oh, there had been other stirrings, but this was definitely alarm. "Excuse me, I teach here. My decor has to look professional, too." "Professional doesn't mean withered and dried-up. Erin, I have to say that this place doesn't look like you. On the surface, sure. But not the real you." He spoke with such confidence. "You don't know the real me." The words sounded shaky. "That's not for lack of trying on my part," he said softly. "And I hear the real you every night when you play the violin. At first, I used to stay away until I figured you'd be finished. But lately, I'm here more often than not." "You are?" "Yes." His gaze roamed her face and his voice was a low murmur. "And you know what I hear? I hear passion. I hear color. I hear emotion and then I see you and I wonder why you hide all that passion." Oh, he was good. Very good. Somehow, he'd moved closer to her. Part of Erin was aware that this was Mick in action and fully explained the parade of women in his life. Another part reminded her that parade was the operative word. They were all just passing through. "I'm choosy about who sees my passion. I know you, too, Mick. You're a variety-is-the-spice-of-life kind of guy. And I'm a one-man-for-a-long-time-and-then-spend-months-getting-over-the-breakup type. And I don't handle breaking up at all well." Why was she telling him this? "My emotional health can't take it and my music suffers." "Ah." And there was a wealth of meaning in the word, as though he'd found the missing piece to a mental puzzle he'd been working on. "Judging by the music I hear, I think you've healed." "I think you're right," Erin whispered. They looked at each other. Erin had never wanted to kiss a man as much as she did in that moment. So naturally, that would be when the doorbell rang with the pizza delivery. *** Regrettably, Mick and Erin didn't get a chance to pick up where they'd left off before the pizza arrived. He'd never known a hot meal to kill the mood so quickly, Mick reflected the next day. But he didn't have time to dwell on it for long. For a show that was supposed to take place in twenty-four hours, there was a lot of prep work. Once the before shots had been filmed it was time to meet with the designers. Mick's was a guy named Earl who thankfully seemed like a normal guy who happened to have a talent for colors.
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Erin's was a serious blonde named Kirstin, who was now talking. "This is a very interesting visual space," she said about Mick's apartment. "Lots of potential for textural contrast." "Is a big-screen TV considered textural contrast?" he asked hopefully. Erin gave him a look of disdain. Kirstin didn't miss a beat. "We're trying to make your space more datefriendly. Was I wrong to assume you want to date women?" "I have no trouble dating women." "Trust me, he doesn't." The way Erin spoke, it wasn't a compliment. "Hmm." Kirstin looked at him doubtfully and shot out her metal tape measure. And this was the thanks he got for disrupting his life? Leaving them to it, he tromped next door to where Earl was waiting in Erin's apartment. Earl stood with one hand cupping his goateed chin. "Oh, my," he said. "This girl needs help, unless she's actually a ninety-five-year-old woman with really good skin." Mick was glad Erin hadn't heard that. He repeated to Earl a little of what Erin had told him about the furniture being a part of her childhood. "I'm not even going to ask if she has a boyfriend," Earl said. "She mentioned wanting a dining nook," Mick told him. "Speaking as one man to another — when you date a woman, is your first thought, 'Man, I hope she has a dining nook'?" Mick shook his head. Earl wielded his own tape measure. "Good. Because this is what I've got in mind." CHAPTER SIX Erin wondered what Mick and Earl were doing, but Kirstin was a measuring fanatic and it was some time before Erin left the designer talking on her cell and made it back to her own apartment. If there was one thing she'd learned about Mick while in his apartment, it was that he worked hard. So maybe he deserved to play hard, but Erin didn't want to hear him. Mick and Earl were measuring the long wall next to her built-in shelving. Why were they measuring there? The dining area was at the opposite end. "Now, Erin, Mick tells me that you're the one who applied to be on the show," Earl said when he saw her. "Yes." "So that means you're open to change." Maybe they were moving the nook. Maybe it wouldn't be a nook at all! Erin thought excitedly. "I sure am!"
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"Glad to hear it." Earl stuck out his hand and Mick and Erin each shook it. "Kirstin and I'll be back with the crew on Friday, so grab some extra sleep because we've got a lot of work ahead of us." "Yeah, speaking of work, I've got a few hours to make up." Mick sighed. He headed for the door after Earl left. Beyond the open door, Erin saw both designers confer, then climb into their respective cars. "Mick?" He looked back at her, his expression neutral. "I —" Just spit it out. "I really appreciate this. I didn't know how much was involved or how time-consuming it would be. You've been great and, well, thanks." "You're welcome." Smiling slightly, he held her gaze for a moment, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. "'Night." Erin closed the door after him, then leaned against it in case her knees gave out. He'd only kissed her on the cheek. A neighborly kiss on the cheek and here she was about to have a total meltdown. How would she respond to an actual kiss? There was a soft knock at the door. Mick stood there. "I'd like to try the goodbye part again." Then he cradled both sides of her face with his hands, swooped down and captured her lips. It was as though an electric shock jolted everything alive inside her. There were places tingling that she didn't even know could tingle. Certainly they'd never tingled with anyone else. She was being thoroughly kissed by a master and as easily and quickly as that, Erin felt herself move closer and closer to total surrender. This was not a good thing. Oh, it felt good. It felt fabulous, but it wasn't good. Regretfully, she held on to the last bit of herself. Mick sensed her withdrawal and ended the kiss in the same deliberately passionate way it had begun. He held on to her face for a few moments, then whispered, "Good night." *** That Friday afternoon right after work, Erin and Mick found themselves staring into a television camera as a perky woman announcer introduced them. It couldn't be over soon enough for Mick. He wanted to follow up on one of the greatest good-night kisses ever, but in order to clear the weekend, he'd had to work a bunch of crazy hours. Now one look at Erin told him she thought he was of the kiss-and-run school. All he had to do was hold out for twenty-four hours and then he could show her he wasn't running anywhere. "Hi! I'm Kelly Khroner. Welcome to Designer Sex! This is the show where men design for women and women design for men. Each team has twenty-four hours and twenty-four-hundred dollars to give their single neighbor's apartment more date appeal — and they'll do it in time for a Saturday night date!" Kelly turned a white-toothed smile toward them. "Mick, Erin, how long have you two lived next to each other?"
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"About a year," Erin answered. "Did you two ever date?" "No," Erin answered quickly. "We're just friends." "We're just neighbors," Mick corrected, to be contrary. "Great! Friendly neighbors!" Kelly chirped. "Do I detect a story behind that?" "There's no story." Erin sounded desperate. "I asked her out once and she turned me down," Mick said. "But I still have hope." Kelly looked at Erin. "You turned him down?" Mick grinned. Erin threw him a narrow-eyed glance. "He had a girlfriend." "Micky, Micky, Micky." "We'd broken up." The producer was giving them hurry-up signals, so Kelly smoothly introduced Earl and Kirstin. "So let's get ready for our date!" Kelly held her smile until the red light on the camera went out, then said, "I need a new closing line." *** Erin and Kirstin stood in Mick's bedroom. This was finally it. Erin was glad she hadn't seen Mick since he'd kissed her good-night. Kiss didn't seem an adequate word, but "fusing of the souls," while more accurate, wasn't something she wanted to contemplate. These past couple of days had allowed her more rational side to regain consciousness and remind her that this was Mick of the many women, the rented furniture and transient job. And noisy bedroom, which they were about to fix. She and Kirstin had discussed their plans earlier in the week, but had to film a bit for the cameras now. "So what would you like to do in here, Erin?" "Well, Kirstin, it's probably no surprise to you that Mick entertains a lot. But the poor guy hasn't ever had a long-term relationship. Now, take a look around." "I have, Erin. It's not a very welcoming bedroom. It's dark and all hard angles. The spread is plain, there are no decorative pillows and just the standard metal miniblinds on the windows." "I think that since women spend so much time here —" Erin enjoyed saying that "— that we should redo it in a more 'female-friendly' design. If a woman feels at home here, maybe she'll want to stay." "Oh, I definitely agree. And so we're going to use fabric. Lots and lots of fabric." Kirstin gestured to the wall and the camera panned over to a poster. "Now he does have one nice poster, a Toulouse-Lautrec from
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which I've pulled colors for the room. We'll be working with grays, gold, a red-orange and pale yellows and black. What do you think of this creamy yellow paint?" "Looks great," Erin dutifully agreed. "And I love your idea of fabric-covered walls and a padded headboard —" Personally, Erin thought that was the best part. *** Mick was also filming. He and Earl were sitting on Erin's fluffy couch. "Originally, I'd thought we'd make her a dining nook so she could cook for her dates, but you've convinced me otherwise, Mick." "I'm glad, Earl." Mick propped his ankle across his knee. He'd refused to say "nook" on television. A man had to have some standards. "She's a nice girl, but the entire time I've lived here, she hasn't had a single date. And if she did, look at this place. It's too girlie. It makes a guy nervous. All she needs is leather and a big-screen TV and she'll be beating the guys off with a stick." "Or a whip," Earl said a little too enthusiastically. "Cut," the producer said. "Reshoot." Earl rolled his eyes and assumed the same expression he'd had before. "Or her violin bow," he said with less enthusiasm. *** Erin had made curtains. She'd actually spent all night awake sewing — who knew she could sew? — and hot-gluing and wielding a staple gun. She and Kirstin had painted, added artwork, new lamps, bedside tables and a chaise with a tiny round table for midnight snacks. And as a finishing touch, Erin bought another copy of her favorite Antonio Zamora CD so it could be playing while Mick saw his room. She loved the room. She didn't want to love the room, and originally she wouldn't have chosen those colors, but yes, she could live in this room. Hypothetically. CHAPTER SEVEN It was time for the "reveal." Erin was blindfolded and led into her apartment. She was so tired she was shaking. But it would be worth it. The first thing she was going to do was have Mick over for dinner as a thank-you for doing the show. "Okay, Erin," Kelly cooed as she unwrapped the blindfold. "This is your new date-friendly living room!" Erin immediately looked at the dining nook. Her needlepoint tapestry wing chair sat there, crammed next to the sofa, which was at an odd angle to keep from blocking the kitchen entrance. Her eyes swiveled toward her living area and she gasped at the black monstrosity dominating the space. "What's that?" "It's your neeeewwww biiiiiiggg screeeeeen TV!" Kelly sounded like a game show host.
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Mick and Earl stood there grinning. Erin shot Mick an incredulous look and was about to light into him when she remembered the cameras were rolling. "Oh, my," she said. "It's so unexpected." She blinked and forced a smile. "Check out the black leatherette couch," Earl urged her. "It reclines." Keep smiling, keep smiling. "There's a lot of black." "It's very guy-friendly," Mick said. He demonstrated the pull-out cup holder in the couch arms. "Once a guy gets in here, he's never going to leave," he added. "I don't know what to say," Erin said with a numb smile. *** "And now it's your turn, Mick! Ta-da!" It could have been worse was his first thought. "Wow," he managed. "I'm so proud of the masculine floral I found for the comforter," Kirstin was saying. In Mick's opinion masculine and floral did not belong in the same sentence. "We understand that Mick entertains a great deal and we wanted to make this room more female-friendly. We have a chaise —" Mick winced. No self-respecting man had something called a chaise in the bedroom. "…soft edges, sumptuous pillows in lush fabrics and contrasting textures that are very inviting to the touch." Okay, whatever. He flashed a smile, knowing his was a much better fake than Erin's. "I can hardly wait to try it out." *** The cameras had gone. Mick was exhausted. They'd painted Erin's living room, wrestled with furniture and built these cool snack holders for her entertainment center. Most of the budget had gone into the TV, and she might want to upgrade the couch to real leather. Still, it was just what she needed. "How could you?" Erin stormed back into his bedroom after letting out the last of the Designer Sex people. "You knew I wanted a dining table and chairs. Now I have this vulgar thing taking up half the space in my living room. And my sofa and chair are crammed into the dining space." She wasn't even willing to give it a chance. "Well, what's with this?" Mick waved his arm around the bedroom. "I'll feel like I fell asleep at the florist's." "I thought Kirstin did a wonderful job. It's a fabulous mix of masculine colors and hints of femininity." "Hints?" He plucked at the fabric swatches draped on either side of the bed. "More like shouts of femininity." "It'll be a lot more appealing to women than it was." "And what good will that do? No man could perform in this!"
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"From what I've heard, you'll have no problem. And maybe slowing down will improve your technique." "There have been no complaints about my technique," Mick snapped. "Ha. I know a fake orgasm when I hear one." "From personal experience? Or can't you remember?" "Oh, I remember." Her face took on a faraway look that filled Mick with a surprising jealousy. And an urge to smack somebody, though that could be just to reassure himself of his masculinity, which he could feel draining away the longer he stayed in this flowery room. Erin turned off the overhead light and turned on the dim bedside lamp. Things looked pink. "You put a pink light bulb in the lamp? How am I supposed to see to read?" She smiled. "We weren't thinking of you reading." "And where did all your budget go? Earl and I got you a primo TV on sale. What have I got?" Erin waved her arm around. "Fabric." Mick tweaked the bed curtains. "Great. I'll call the Sound of Music chick and ask her to send over some orphans." "What's really bothering you?" Erin had a strange light in her eyes and Mick didn't think it came from any pink bulb. "This isn't a guy's room. It doesn't speak to my inner guyness." "So you still have performance issues." "No, I have pillow issues." Mick scowled at the cluster on his bed. "There are six or seven there. Am I supposed to sleep with them all?" "They're decorative. Textural contrast. You have shiny satin, soft velvet, nubby cotton and a wonderful Thai silk that changes colors in the light." "Nubby cotton sounds like a jazz clarinetist from New Orleans." Erin picked up the off-white pillow and ran her hand over the, well, the nubs. "Did you ever consider that this bedroom might inspire a woman?" "Does it inspire you?" "Mmm." Erin closed her eyes and swayed slightly to the music. "Yes, I believe it does." What? Wait a minute. Mick drew his attention away from the nubs and inefficient light bulbs and gave himself a mental get-with-the-program slap. Erin was inspired. In his bedroom. Right now. Mick might be cranky from exhaustion, but he knew an inspired Erin was a good thing. He'd been waiting for an inspired Erin.
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He was entranced. Standing there swaying to the music, she looked so loose and limber and relaxed…. So not the way she normally looked, which was all pinched and prissy. "It's a beautiful room," she whispered and drew her hand over the velvet pillow in a way that made Mick's throat dry. "You're beautiful," he said. Lame, lame, lame. But apparently good enough. "I am?" Her face took on a radiant glow that had nothing to do with pink light bulbs. "Yeah." It was said in surrender. "Your hair…" He wanted to bury his hands in it. "Your face…" He was too tired to be eloquent. "Even the way you play the violin when you're mad." "That's not anger." She stepped forward and ran her finger down his paint-spattered T-shirt. "That's passion." She had him right then, but she continued. "I keep it inside where it burns and seethes…" Mick's breathing became heavier. "…and struggles to find a way out…" Mick was so ready to help her passion find a way out. She stepped closer and looped her arms around his neck. "And if music is all I've got, then that's where you'll hear my passion. But if I've got something else — someone else…" Mick felt himself stir against her. With a smile, Erin glanced down. "I believe we just established that you have no more performance issues." "Point taken," Mick said. "By the way, if that's all you had in mind, then now's the time to leave. If not —" "If not, then you'll kiss me?" Even as his mouth captured hers, Mick was prepared for her to pull away. He was not prepared for her to kiss him back. He was not prepared for her to fall onto the bed and draw him with her. He was not prepared for all the blood, or most of the blood, to rush to his head and for his heart to pound Erin, Er-in. But he recovered quickly. "Hmm. Feel how soft the comforter is," she whispered against his ear. "Mmm." Mick had buried his mouth in the crook of her neck. "I love the different textures, the rough, the smooth, the velvet. It's so sensual, isn't it?"
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"Mmm-mmm." Mick stroked her springy soft curls and kissed his way across her smooth skin until he touched her velvety lips with his rough tongue. Maybe there was something to this flowery decor stuff was his next-to-last coherent thought. His last coherent thought was when Erin wriggled out from beneath him, started unbuttoning her blouse and asked, "Don't you want to feel everything against your naked skin?" And he thought, Oh, yeah. He pulled his T-shirt over his head in time to see Erin gazing at him, naked from the waist up, her skin lush and rosy in the dim light. Mick reached for the clip behind her head and released the masses of curly hair. Gently, he buried his hands in it and pulled long strands of curls over her shoulders where the ends danced at the tops of her breasts. And then he just looked. He knew he should say something, but was incapable. Moments passed before he realized that Erin was regarding him with a frank sensuality. Running both hands over his chest, she murmured, "Nice." Why was she the self-possessed one and he the one paralyzed by desire? Then she rose onto her knees in the middle of the bed and shimmied out of her jeans and anything else she was wearing. Tossing them onto the floor she extended her arms into the pillows and, catlike, rubbed her body against them. Mick had to remind himself to breathe. CHAPTER EIGHT Erin didn't know what possessed her and, frankly, didn't care. The more Mick visibly restrained himself, his hot gaze roaming over her body, the sexier she felt. He wanted her, but he wasn't entirely sure of her. She found the knowledge empowering. Mick stripped off the rest of his clothes, his gaze never leaving her. Then he stretched out beside her, laced his fingers with hers and brought her knuckles to his mouth for a gentle kiss. With his other hand, he deftly slid open the drawer of the nightstand. The man was smooth. The man would be rewarded for it. Shifting her hand in his, Erin drew them both slowly over the velvet pillow and over her skin, then up to the silk pillow and across her neck. Turning her head, she placed an equally gentle kiss on his fingers. "You know," she said in a husky voice she didn't recognize, "slow has its moments, but there's a lot to be said for hot and fast." And Mick proved that he could be very, very fast and very, very hot. Within moments, he had her writhing on the soft comforter, making sounds that were an awful lot like those she'd heard through the wall. He kissed her deeply as his fingers worked magic, swallowed her gasp as he joined with her. "Erin," he breathed. Just Erin. Not Erin-baby, or anything else. Perfect. Perfect enough to send her over the edge, feeling a supreme satisfaction when he followed immediately after.
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As they lay together, she could feel his heart racing in time with her own and decided that this was a perfect moment, too. He murmured something and nuzzled her neck, then kissed her temple. Erin sighed. This was so much better than she thought it would be. She had expected him to know all the moves, but it was his uninhibited tenderness that really got to her. Erin drew a deep breath and wondered what to do next. Stay? Or leave? Act casual or admit that the past few minutes ranked as some of the most fabulous of her life? Mick didn't give her the option. "Wow," he whispered. He shifted to his side, rolled her onto hers and drew her against him, fitting himself against the curve of her back, his arm around her waist. Then he wrapped them both in a cocoon of the new comforter and Erin fell asleep in his arms. *** After a full night's sleep and a good part of the next morning besides, Erin emerged from the cocoon with the knowledge that if Mick had bedposts, he'd be entitled to carve another notch. Oh, he was wonderful, and kind, and funny, and charming, and fed her a breakfast of decently scrambled eggs and strawberry Pop-Tarts, but the upshot was that she had succumbed — and moaned — just like all the others. She'd had such a great time and from the way Mick acted, she figured there could be more great times. But she knew in her heart that she shouldn't indulge because as long as she was having temporary great times with Mick, she wouldn't be available to meet a man with whom she could have permanent great times. *** As far as Mick was concerned, Erin could eat Pop-Tarts in his kitchen for as long as she wanted. He was about to tell her so when she spoke. "Last night was great, but it's going to have to be a one-time deal." "I don't want it to be a one-time deal." Was she kidding? Testing him? "Look, Mick…" She brushed her hair back from her face and fastened it with the clip, transforming herself from the passionate spirit she'd been last night into the familiar repressed neighbor. "I don't share well with others." "Others?" His jaw tensed. "You mean women?" Erin nodded. "There are no others. There haven't been in a long time," he admitted, exasperated. "I heard you just last week —" "You heard the CD! There was nobody here but me." Erin slid off the bar stool. "Then why were you playing it?" He hesitated, then admitted, "Pride." "You deliberately kept me awake for hours out of pride?" "I didn't mean to fall asleep —"
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Erin held up a hand and headed for the door. "It's okay. We'll just…just go back to being neighbors and forget about it." "I'll let you cool off," Mick called after her. "But I'm not going to let you forget anything." *** Like she could forget anything with a stupid TV taking up half her living space. Mick was another story. She'd bet it took only a week before he decided she wasn't worth the effort. After all, there was no longer the thrill of the chase, was there? Erin refused to blame herself or regret her night with him. She just set about getting over Mick. Mostly that meant ignoring all attempts he made to contact her. It also meant that she was watching a heck of a lot more television than she used to. She was such a pushover. One Great Performances with the Boston Symphony in glorious Technicolor and surround sound on PBS, and she was hooked. She knew she should sell the TV and buy dining furniture, but, well, she didn't. Erin also knew that she should talk to Mick, but she didn't do that either. Although she did go so far as to buy a special pay-per-view holiday sports package, thinking she could invite him over to watch it — as a neighborly gesture — but changed her mind when she caught an unexpected glimpse of him collecting his mail and nearly hyperventilated. Nope, not over him yet. On Saturday night, Erin was thoroughly engrossed in a movie and a bowl of popcorn when there was a knock at her door. "Go away, Mick," she said through the closed door when she saw who it was. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but we need to talk about our relationship. Did you hear that? I'm betraying my gender here." Erin laughed silently. "Mick, I'm fine. I'm not angry, really. It's just that you aren't ready to have the kind of relationship I want." "Yes, I am. And I'll prove it to you." Erin heard him open and close the door to his apartment and she went back to her movie. At the first thud, Erin yelped and spilled her popcorn. The next thud opened a hole in the wall. "Mick! What are you doing — stop it!" He ignored her. Erin ran to the bookshelves to steady the knickknacks and watched Mick enlarge the hole in the wall with disconcerting ease. Within a few minutes, he stepped through the hole in the wall and set a sledgehammer against the jagged edge. "Hi." He brushed Sheetrock dust from his arms and shoulders. "I didn't hurt the TV, did I?" "What do you think you're doing?" "Committing and redecorating. Masculine, but with hints of femininity. A rare combination. You should snap me up." "You're a nut." Erin rolled her eyes and returned to her fake-leather couch.
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"Erin, we were great together. There's nobody else. I don't want anybody else. I'm staying in Houston. I even like the stupid pillows." He admired his handiwork. "And I really like our newly enlarged living room." Erin was losing the battle, which judging by Mick's expression, he'd figured out. "What do you say?" What could she say? No man had ever knocked a hole in the wall for her before. "I say I get to control the remote and we're watching the women's channel." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Those are your terms?" "Those are my terms." Mick hopped over the back of the couch and slid down next to her. "Pass the popcorn." He didn't even complain. What a guy. Erin only subjected him to about fifteen seconds before punching the remote. In place of the movie, the logo for a Las Vegas casino appeared on the screen. "The Trinidad–de la Hoya fight? No way!" He looked down at her. "I love you." "You should." "You love me, too, doncha?" "I shouldn't." "But you do." He smiled in satisfaction as he settled deeper into the couch. "Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm a lovable guy." "Hmm. I need more of a sense of this lovableness." "Okay." He dug into his pocket and pulled out two tickets. Orchestra seats. To the sold-out Antonio Zamora concert. "These came with them." He handed her two invitations. "Green room passes?" Erin fingered them reverently. "But the champagne reception is only for the donors — the big donors. The patrons. How —?" "So I'm a patron now." "You aren't." Mick stared at the screen where the boxers were parading into the ring. "Yeah. I kinda like violin music." Erin studied his profile and felt a sense of rightness — of completion. And relief that she wasn't going to fight it anymore. "I love you." "I know." He grinned. "Have some popcorn."
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CHEROKEE CHRISTMAS by SHERI WHITEFEATHER Traci Calhoun, the bright-spirited daughter of a pastor, believes in extending goodwill. But when her son, Parker, convinces her to visit the elusive Daniel Crow, she finds herself falling in love with a moody stranger — a man who needs to face his past and embrace the heritage he left behind. Daniel Crow moved into a haunted mansion so he could hide from the rest of the world, not so he could be tempted by Traci Calhoun, a beautiful waitress and the single mother of a six-year-old boy infatuated with American Indians. Hiding from the pain and sadness of his past, this reclusive Cherokee never expected to find peace at Christmastime.
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE "Are you sure you want to do this?" Traci Calhoun asked her six-year-old son. Parker bobbed his head, reddish blond hair peeking out from beneath a knit cap, a down jacket buttoned to his chin. The heater in Traci's old Camaro was on the blink again, the defroster blowing cool air. "It's Christmastime, Mom. And he's all alone." "Of course, you're right. What was I thinking?" The daughter of a pastor, she had raised her son well. But today, she wished he wasn't inclined to extend his goodwill to the outskirts of town. To the elusive stranger who had moved into Orchid House. The lone mansion sat on a hill, the woods looming behind it. As the house came into view, she told herself to relax. The ghost stories about Orchid House were legend in Wileyville, but what bothered her most was why Daniel Crow felt compelled to live there, secluded from the rest of the world and shrouded in mystery. She parked in front of the mansion. It looked like a Southern plantation, completely out of place on the fringes of a small Pennsylvania town. Parker reached for the cookies, the gesture rife with anticipation. "I heard he's a real-live Indian, Mom." And that was a source of fascination to her son, Traci thought. One of the reasons he insisted on paying Daniel Crow a visit. "I know, but I think he might prefer to be called an American Indian, rather than a reallive one. Of course, there's always Native American. I get a little confused about what's politically correct these days." "Huh?" The boy made a curious face, and she realized she had spoken over his head. Truthfully, she didn't know what Daniel Crow preferred. She didn't know anything about him, aside from the adjectives others had used to describe him. Tall. Dark. Lean. Mean. Moody. Unfortunately they weren't the kinds of words that welcomed a woman, a child, and a tin of gingerbread. A brick walkway led to the front door, twin columns standing guard. An abundance of foliage fought to survive the winter, making the mansion look even more ominous. Supposedly the scent of orchids haunted the lonely halls, a perfume that lingered from the female ghosts who resided there.
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Traci knocked, and her son shifted his feet in the brisk morning air. Within minutes, Daniel Crow answered the summons. No one spoke, including Parker, who was known for being chatty. The man they had come to see was tall and intimidating. His hair, as sleek and black as a raven's wing, fell onto broad shoulders. But it was his eyes that caught Traci's attention. As dark as his hair, they revealed not even the slightest flicker of emotion. Nothing, she thought, wondering what secrets they chose to hide. "May I help you?" He said finally, his voice tinged with a husky Southern drawl. Clearly awed, Parker offered the decorative tin. Hesitating for a moment, Daniel accepted the gift. Appearing confused, he held the container without opening it. "Cookies," Traci explained. Those black eyes met hers, drilling her with a hypnotic stare. Why hadn't anyone described him as captivating? Or striking? The kind of man who made a girl forget to breathe? Refined yet rugged, he exuded an odd blend of Southern grace and Native roots. His posture was long and almost lazy, yet his features were stern and proud. "You must have me mixed up with someone else," he said. "No way." This came from Parker, who inched forward, putting himself nearly toe to toe with the lord of Orchid House. "You're that Indian guy who never talks to anybody. My grandpa says that's okay, though. 'Course, he's grumpy sometimes, too." Traci didn't apologize for her son. She couldn't bear to embarrass him in front of the man he hoped to befriend. And little Parker Calhoun was what he was. Honest to a fault. "So you brought me cookies." There was a hint of amusement in Daniel's slow, sensual drawl, just enough to tilt one corner of his lips. "Chocolate chip, I'll bet." "Nope," the boy replied. "They're gingerbread. And they're shaped like angels, with white icing on their wings and gold candy on their halos. It was my idea to come here, but my mom thought of the cookies." Daniel's smile disappeared as he shifted his gaze from Parker to Traci. Moving away from the child, he came toward her, and she resisted the urge to step back. He no longer seemed amused. "Good God, woman," he whispered. "Why on earth did you bring me angels?" CHAPTER TWO Daniel knew he was standing too close. He towered over her by at least a foot — this pretty lady with the riot of auburn curls. The lady who had given him angels. Was it a sign? he asked himself. Or was his imagination working overtime? Nothing in Orchid House was simple, least of all the haunting. Unable to stop himself, he moved closer. She had eyes as green as an Irish countryside, a nose dusted with freckles. He imagined lifting his hand and caressing her face, her smooth, ivory skin.
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It was an odd time to feel an attraction. Up until this disturbing moment, he'd assumed his need for a woman had died with his wife. But here it was, unwelcome as sin, sliding through his blood, making him warm and wanting. "Why did you bring me angels?" he repeated the question, his voice quiet, his gaze locked with hers. "Because it's Christmastime." Her answer conjured a painful image. He retreated from the memory, and in doing so realized he had probably frightened Traci with his question. And possibly the child, as well. The boy watched him much too closely. Daniel figured him to be about six, and that hurt most of all, considering six years had passed since the fire. "I'm sorry," he managed, taking a step back. "I don't get many visitors." And he didn't celebrate Christmas anymore. "That's 'cause you're new in town," the boy piped in, his easy manner returning. "But that's okay. We can tell you anything you wanna know about Wileyville. We've lived here forever. We know everybody." Cocking his head, he grinned, flashing a gap between two slightly crooked front teeth. The child had such an earnest smile, Daniel thought as he struggled with the urge to laugh and cry at the same time, feeling charmed yet saddened by a kid he had just met. Battling the jumble of emotion, he glanced at the woman, then slid right back into that warm, sultry place — the unexpected sexual pull that made him want to touch her. He curled his fingers around the cookie tin, finding it a cool, impersonal substitute. He hoped she wasn't married. The idea of lusting after another man's wife didn't sit well. "Where are you from?" she asked. Nowhere in particular, he almost said, since he had been drifting more often than not. "North Carolina." "Ah, your accent," she acknowledged, as if the sound of it pleased her. "Do you mind if I ask what tribe you're from? We don't get many Native Americans around here." Daniel blinked. "Eastern Band Cherokee." A heritage he had abandoned a long time ago. Being Cherokee didn't mean anything. He couldn't return to the reservation any more than he could return to the genteel Southern society his wife had been born into. "And your name is Daniel Crow?" "That's right." "Well, It's nice to meet you. I'm Traci Calhoun, and this is my son, Parker." Daniel tensed as if he'd been sucker-punched, gulping the air that rushed out of his lungs. Parker. The infant he'd buried had been named Parker. A twist of fate? Or a painful coincidence? Suddenly he couldn't move. He stood like a statue, the winter chill slicing into his bones with the force of a razor-edged knife. "Are you all right?"
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He heard Traci's voice, but he couldn't form the words to respond. Instead he nodded. Or thought he did. The haunting was pulling him under. He had bought Orchid House so he could brood with the ghosts, not be summoned by a pretty redhead and a kid with a crooked smile who answered to his son's name. "I guess we better go," she told him. "You're out here without a coat, and you seem to have caught a shiver. Maybe you should go inside. The flu is going around." She nudged Parker ahead, who said something about chicken soup as they walked away. Daniel snapped out of his trance and noticed her car didn't start right away. It coughed several times before the engine came to life. As she traveled down the hill, he opened the cookie tin. And when he saw sugarcoated wings and gilded halos, he wondered what in heaven's name he was supposed to do. CHAPTER THREE Damn it!" Traci kicked her car, slamming her foot into the front tire. Of all times for the beast to quit on her. Here she stood, exhausted from working a double shift, freezing her butt off in an old coat and the pink-andwhite uniform she detested, the parking lot emptier than her bank account. "That bad, is it?" The deep voice came out of the dark, putting her feminine instincts on full alert. She spun around and prayed he was someone she knew. Could a hitchhiker be passing through Main Street on his way to the turnpike? Not likely, she told herself. Besides, this was her hometown. The biggest crime ever committed in Wileyville was a speeding violation. The man was a filmy image, tall and shrouded by a chilly mist, coming toward her with the thud of heavy boots. She waited while he moved closer, into the buttery glow of a streetlamp. Instantly, she recognized Daniel Crow, who looked as big and rangy as a wildcat, his shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Where had he come from? There wasn't another car in sight. Had he walked all the way into town, like a predator roaming the night? "My car won't start." It was all she could think to say. "Let me see if I can get it running." She stepped back while he helped himself to her road-weary vehicle. After playing with the ignition switch, he ducked his head under the hood, using a flashlight she'd provided from the trunk. "I think it's your starter." He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. "Great. Are those expensive?" "I can get you one. I can install it, too." Dumbfounded, she only stared. "Why would you do that?" An icy breeze blew his hair away from his face, exposing the planes and angles that formed his raw-boned features. "Because I'm good with cars. And because I never thanked you properly for welcoming me to the neighborhood." "So this would be your way of saying thanks?"
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"Yes, ma'am." His lips tilted into that half smile, the one as smooth and slow as his voice. Warding off the cold, she crossed her arms, feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. Her nipples were as hard as bullets. Not that he'd notice, considering the layers of clothing she wore. But that wasn't the point. He didn't know that she'd had an erotic dream about him, that the memory still tormented her. She had awakened warm and slick, clinging to a fantasy she couldn't forget. "You're not married, are you?" he asked, making the image of her guilty dream sequence seem even more forbidden. "I'm divorced." And that, Traci decided, gave her every right to fantasize. Especially since Bradley Calhoun had left nearly five years before without bothering to look back. "Good. I mean, I didn't think so, but I figured I should ask. Men tend to get a little territorial about their wives." Not men like Bradley, she thought, as silence stretched between them. Daniel shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and Traci glanced down at her ugly white shoes. He looked as dashing as a desperado in his duster and black boots, and she looked like exactly what she was — a smalltown waitress, a young, struggling divorcée. A woman having sensual dreams about a stranger… CHAPTER FOUR -"So you're good with cars?" Traci heard herself say, desperate to end the awkward silence. "I used to manufacture after-market auto parts for vintage Chevys." Scraping his boots on the asphalt, Daniel frowned. "But I don't own the business anymore." Gauging his expression, she asked, "Did you lose it?" "No. I sold it to a national corporation." He paused, his eyebrows still furrowed. "They paid me a substantial amount." She studied his frown, realizing the rumors were true. She'd heard Daniel was an eccentric millionaire, worth more money than he had time to count. "And that's a bad thing?" He shrugged. "I've learned being rich isn't the key to happiness." He was certainly an enigma, she thought. A Cherokee from North Carolina burdened by his wealth. No one could describe him as an American Indian stereotype, especially since he had purchased a Southern-style mansion in a small Pennsylvania town. What had drawn him to Orchid House? The isolation? The supposed ghosts? Another gust of wind snapped out of the sky, rattling branches on a nearby tree. Traci's untamed curls blew wildly. She pushed the annoying locks of hair away from her face and noticed Daniel appeared to be assessing her in the same manner in which she'd assessed him. "What in the hell were you doing out here alone?" Startled by his sharp tone, she looked up and met his gaze head on. "This is where I work." She motioned to the diner behind them. "And I had to close tonight."
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"By yourself?" "The cook was sick, so I sent him home a little early." Daniel shook his head. "What if it wasn't me who happened by? What if it was some lunatic?" People think you're dangerous, she wanted to say. And crazy, too. Only a madman would lurk behind the walls of a haunted mansion. She motioned to the diner again, indicating the string of holiday lights decorating the roof. She loved this season, broken-down car or not. "For goodness' sake, it's Christmastime. Ease up, okay? I'm fine. All I have to do is call a tow truck." He scanned the twinkling lights, his expression grim. Whipping out a cell phone, he handed it to her. "If you think nothing tragic happens at this time of year, then let me tell you, you're sorely mistaken." She took the phone, wondering what had turned Daniel Crow into a hard and lonely man. Nothing shone in his eyes, least of all the sparkle of holiday cheer. "Where did you come from?" she asked, gesturing to the empty parking lot. "What do you mean?" "It's like you appeared out of thin air." He was still frowning. "I parked in front of the diner." She held the phone, but had yet to dial the information operator. "What compelled you to walk around back?" "You," he said, moving closer. "I can't explain it, but I sensed you would be here. It was as though someone whispered your name in my head." A chill raced up Traci's spine, and a moment later, she detected the faint aroma of flowers drifting through the winter air. Orchids? she wondered, as Daniel lifted his hand and brushed it gently across her cheek. Her skin tingled where his touch landed, just as it had in her dream. But this wasn't a dream — was it? CHAPTER FIVE It felt like an out-of-body experience, Traci thought. One of those surreal moments in life when you drift on the edge of something dangerous. Beautifully dangerous. Daniel's hand was strong yet gentle, warm against her skin. Her hair blew in a mass of tumbled curls. He captured a strand between his fingers, and she slipped deeper into the moment. Their eyes met and held. The glow from the streetlamp cast an amber hue as shadows danced in the night. The scent of orchids still swirled in the air. She imagined them showering her body — hundreds of white petals floating down from the heavens.
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He lowered his head, and she knew he was going to kiss her. He cupped her face, and when his lips touched hers, she made a breathy sound. He tasted fresh and clean and seductive, his tongue mating eagerly with hers. His coat was open, billowing and snapping in the breeze. Traci needed to free her hands so she could encircle his waist. Still clutching the phone, she pressed it into the front pocket of his jeans. Unconsciously she brushed his fly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" He fought back a groan. "It's all right." Was it? she asked herself. She was dizzy, drowning in desire. "What are we doing, Daniel?" "I don't know." And he sounded as if he didn't care if it was right or wrong, if it bordered on insanity. "Unbutton your coat." She blinked, nearly staggered. "What?" "I want to feel you, all of you, next to me." Her hands shook, but she reached for the buttons on her coat, opening the bulky garment. He watched her, his eyes dark and passionate. They were strangers, but it didn't matter. Something was happening between them, something too powerful to name. He leaned against the car and opened his legs. Traci slid between them. But the moment he drew her against his chest, the mood shifted. Suddenly they weren't kissing or caressing. They were just holding each other, heartbeats melding. His body was strong and solid, big and powerful. He reminded her of a warrior, a man who would cherish and protect what belonged to him. She closed her eyes and put her head on his shoulder. "Traci?" "Hmm?" "Thank you." She lifted her head and admired his face, the strength and masculine beauty in it. "For what?" "For this," he said, his eyes seeking hers. "It's been a long time since I've been with someone. And I'm not just talking about sex. I mean intimacy. Real intimacy." And that, she decided, was the feeling too powerful, too erotic to name, the something that was happening between them. "I like you, Daniel." "You barely know me." "That doesn't mean I can't like you." He brushed her lips in a near-kiss, then drew back abruptly. "It's nice that we're becoming friends, but I don't think we should be doing this anymore. I'm still, ah…you know."
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Aroused, she thought, suddenly aware of the hardness beneath his zipper. Their bodies were still pressed together. She felt her face flush and realized how strange this whole experience was. "Maybe I should call the tow truck now." "Yeah. Good idea." Which meant, of course, moving away from him and pretending they hadn't been on the verge of becoming lovers. If he had asked her to go home with him, she would have gone. And for Traci, that would have been inexcusable. She didn't sleep with strangers. He removed the phone from his pocket, and she stepped back and buttoned her coat. She made the call, and they waited in silence. But 10 minutes later, when a white vehicle turned into the parking lot, its tires squealing, Traci's pulse quickened. She recognized the driver instantly. CHAPTER SIX "Oh, no." Traci made a face. "With everything that happened, I forgot to call Tom." Daniel watched the SUV jerk to a halt, realizing the driver had shoved it into park. "Tom?" My father-in-law." A stocky man stepped out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. "What the hell is going on, Traci? I've been worried sick. You should have been home hours ago." "I know. I'm sorry. My car wouldn't start, and I've been waiting for the tow truck. Where's Parker?" "Asleep. I asked Mavis to watch him." Still irritated, the man eyed Daniel. "Who's he?" Traci voiced a polite introduction. "His name is Daniel Crow, and he offered to fix my car. He thinks the starter is bad. He's going to put a new one in for me." "I see," Tom said to Daniel, his posture relaxing a little. "I guess I owe you a thank-you, then." "Don't worry about it." He was grateful the older man had decided he wasn't a threat. He wasn't up for a sparring match, and Traci's father-in-law would have made a formidable opponent. He wasn't nearly as tall as Daniel, but he was solid, with the blue-collar stance of a steel worker or a brick mason. "Aren't you that fellow who bought Orchid House?" Tom asked. "Yes, I am." The one who had been keeping Traci out in the cold, kissing her. Suddenly he didn't feel like the gentleman she had made him out to be. Daniel frowned, thinking about the condoms he'd purchased. He hadn't bought them with Traci in mind, but his attraction to her had triggered the idea. The urge to become sexually active again meant he needed protection. Yeah, but now that he had kissed Traci, it was her he wanted. And damn it, he knew anything beyond friendship wouldn't be wise. She didn't seem like the type who would engage in uncommitted sex. Then again, that wasn't his usual style, either. The last woman who had warmed Daniel's bed had been his wife. "You made quite an impression on my grandson."
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Jarred from his thoughts, Daniel dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. What?" "Parker," the other man clarified. "You're all he's been talking about for days. You're the first Indian he's ever met. He thinks you're pretty cool." "Oh." Daniel didn't know what to say, so he glanced at Traci, who sent him a shy smile. She hadn't told him that her son had developed a case of misguided hero worship of him. "I watch of a lot cowboy movies on TV," Tom explained. "So I suppose it was only natural for Parker to take an interest in the Old West. But since he always rooted for the Indians, who never seemed to triumph in those old films, I rented him that kids' movie, the one where the little Indian figure comes to life in the magic cupboard. That clinched it. After that, he was hooked." Daniel had never seen the movie Tom described, but he supposed the Indian in it was the noble, proud-ofhis-heritage sort — a depiction that certainly didn't mirror his own actions. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he squinted at the string of holiday lights decorating the diner. He'd left the reservation, the Qualla Boundary, 16 years ago and hadn't returned since. Not even for Christmas. Of course, he sent money to his father, but the checks were always refused, uncashed and unwelcome. Damn it. Why was he blaming himself? His father was the stubborn one. He hadn't understood Daniel's need to break free, his need to prove himself in the white world. He looked at Traci and wondered what to do about her son. How was he supposed to live up to the boy's expectations? Parker was infatuated with Indians, but Daniel Crow wasn't Cherokee anymore. CHAPTER SEVEN Daniel stood in Traci's garage, dressed in threadbare jeans and an old sweatshirt, a wrench stuffed into his back pocket. While replacing the starter in her car, he'd discovered an oil leak. Maybe he should loan her one of his Camaros. He owned several, along with a couple of Novas and a fleet of Corvettes parked in the remodeled carriage house at the mansion. Parker bounced into the garage, his tennis shoes squeaking on the cement floor. "Hi, Daniel. I didn't know you were here. I just got back from my friend's house. His name's Benjamin." Overwhelmed by the burst of youthful energy, Daniel managed a befuddled, "Oh, yeah?" He wasn't experienced with children. His son, his Parker, had died at three months old. He could still recall the baby's soft, powdery skin, the little cooing sounds he made, the way his eyelids fluttered before he drifted off to sleep. "My mom's making soup for lunch, but I'm not having any 'cause I ate macaroni and cheese at Ben's house." Rubbing the end of his nose, the boy pursed his lips. His skin was pink and slightly chapped. "Did you fix our car?" "Yes, but there are other things wrong with it." He couldn't help but wonder how his son would have looked at six, if he would have been the same size as Traci's boy. "Are you gonna fix those things, too?" "If your mom doesn't mind. I'll probably have to take the car to my house." Keeping his hands busy, Daniel put away his tools. A strand of Parker's hair was sticking straight up, and he had the fatherly notion to smooth it. "Hey, Daniel?"
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"Yes?" "Can you talk Cherokee?" He tried not to frown. "I used to speak the Kituwah dialect when I was younger." "Koala?" "No. Kit-u-wah." "Do you remember enough to teach me?" He did, of course. He hadn't forgotten his native tongue. He had just stopped using it. Meeting Parker's hopeful gaze, he wiped his hands. Daniel didn't want to be anyone's hero, but it appeared he had little choice. Shattering Parker's illusions didn't seem like an option. "If you get a piece of paper and a pencil, I'll show you the Cherokee syllables." The kid flew out of the garage, the tails of his shirt hanging below his waist-length jacket. He returned in record time, handing over the writing implements. Daniel sat on the floor next to Parker and penned the syllables. "A man named Sequoyah invented the Cherokee alphabet. It took him 12 years to perfect it, but he didn't give up. At first people thought he was crazy, but later they respected him for teaching the tribe how to communicate with a written language." He went on to explain the sounds and how they compared to English. Parker listened with rapt attention. Unable to resist, Daniel smoothed the boy's cowlick. On another sheet of paper, Parker attempted to copy the syllables. As the boy set his face in a determined expression, the cowlick popped up again. Daniel found himself smiling. Parker beamed, displaying his handiwork. "I'm gonna show my mom. And my grandpa, too." "Sure. Go ahead." Once Daniel was alone, he decided the Cherokee lesson hadn't cost him anything. Surprisingly, it hadn't made him guilty or moody. Nor had it made him feel as if his heritage was a source of pity, the way the tourist seasons in North Carolina used to affect him. But he supposed it was the way the boy had looked at him, the innocence and admiration in his eyes. Daniel finished packing his tools and carried them out to his truck. Lifting them onto the bed, he wondered about Parker's father. The paternal grandpa lived next door, but where was the boy's dad? Curious enough to ask Traci about her ex-husband, he entered her duplex through the garage and followed the aroma of tomatoes, onions, and spices floating through the air. The kitchen, he decided, with its butcherblock countertops and built-in booth, had been designed for home-cooked meals and conversation. Traci stood at the stove, stirring soup in a big copper pot. Her hair had been gathered into a topknot, but curls sprang rebelliously from the ladylike confinement. Hesitating in the doorway, Daniel watched her, suddenly wanting more than conversation. He imagined pressing his lips to the delicate column of her neck. He could almost taste her skin — the sweet, womanly flavor. She turned, and their eyes met. But a second later, her gaze shifted to the decorated doorframe.
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Curious, Daniel glanced up, then realized he had trapped himself in one of those awkward moments. A sprig of mistletoe, garnished with a shiny gold ribbon, dangled above his head. CHAPTER EIGHT Daniel stood below the mistletoe, and all Traci could think about was kissing him. He looked rough and masculine, with his hair banded into a ponytail, his jeans frayed, his sweatshirt old and faded. "Would you like some lunch?" she asked instead. "Sure. Okay." Tall and broad-shouldered, he stepped farther into the room, dwarfing her cluttered kitchen. "Just have a seat. It'll be ready in a minute." "I need to wash up first." "Oh. Of course." She slipped past him, offering the sink. While Daniel scrubbed the grease from his hands, Traci moved around, gathering plates and silverware, setting the table. She hadn't forgotten how strong and solid his body was, or how it felt pressed against hers. She removed rolls from the oven, and he turned away from the sink. She'd dreamed about him again — bronzed and naked, sliding between her thighs, his stomach muscles — "Can I help with anything?" The pan teetered, nearly burning her wrist. "What? No. I'm fine." Just warm and aroused and envisioning wicked sex. He scooted into her cramped built-in dining booth, and Traci served their lunch. Taking a deep breath, she joined him. They sat across from each other in silence. Great. Now she would be self-conscious about eating, about lifting food to her mouth, chewing, swallowing. He smiled, and she realized he was trying to break the ice, the strange heat between them. Grateful, she smiled back. He tasted his meal. "This is really good." "Thanks. My mom used to make vegetable soup on long winter days. It's tradition, I guess." "Really?" Daniel poured dressing over his salad. "Does she live close by?" "No. She and my dad are missionaries, so they travel a lot." He cocked his head. "I thought you grew up around here." "I did. My dad was the pastor of a local parish. He and Mom didn't start doing missionary work until I was older." She missed her parents, but she respected their need to make a difference in the world. "They call as often as they can. They adore Parker." Daniel smiled again. "He sure is a nice kid."
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"I'm pleased you think so." Pride swelled her heart. Like any mother, she wanted her child to make a good impression, but for some reason, Daniel's opinion mattered more than most. "He went next door to show Tom what you taught him. It was nice of you to spend some time with him. I know you were busy with the car and all." "Like I said, he's a great kid." Lifting his water, he took a drink. "He's really close to Tom, isn't he?" She nodded. "Tom's a good grandpa. I don't know what I'd do without him, especially since my parents don't live around here anymore." "What about Parker's dad?" Her stomach tensed. "What about him?" "Are he and Parker close?" "No." She set her spoon on the table. "Bradley Calhoun left town when Parker was about a year old." Daniel's jaw nearly dropped. "You mean he just walked away?" "Yes," Traci said, wishing she didn't have to tell him the truth about her marriage. CHAPTER NINE Traci picked up her fork and toyed with her salad, moving lettuce around on the plate. "We dated for several years," she said, recalling her relationship with Brad. "But we were young, and we never talked about a future. So when I got pregnant, he was really upset. He only married me because Tom insisted he do the right thing." "Have you heard from him at all?" Daniel asked. "Just once, when he served me with the divorce papers." "I'm sorry, Traci." She frowned into her food. "I didn't love him the way I should have, but I wanted it to work. I wanted it to be something special." Daniel sent her a sympathetic look. "Plenty of people get married for the sake of a child, but it doesn't always work out." "I thought it was going to be different for me." She had tried to convince herself that Brad was the love of her life, but her heart had betrayed her. Traci could still recall her girlish fantasies, her hope that a child would bring them closer. But life had become more stressful after their baby was born, and Brad couldn't cope with a clinging wife and a rambunctious toddler. "The marriage was doomed from the beginning, but I still wish things could have turned out differently for Parker. Brad had no right to leave him." Daniel stopped eating. "Does Parker ever ask about his dad?" "He used to, but he doesn't anymore. And he was only a year old, so he doesn't have any memories to feel sad about. He might get angry when he's a teenager, but I'll deal with that when the time comes." Giving herself something to do, she sliced a roll and buttered the center.
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"Tom's the one who's had the most trouble coping. He wanted his son to be more like him, to be satisfied with simple things. But Brad wasn't happy living in a small town, following in his father's footsteps. There was always anger and resentment between them. They argued something fierce the day Brad left." "So they never got along?" "No. Never. True, Tom was hard on Brad at times, but I think Brad was wrong for the way he treated his father. And of course, our forced marriage didn't help matters. It was a volatile situation all the way around." Suddenly silence engulfed the room. Daniel shifted, and Traci felt his foot bump hers under the table. Avoiding her gaze, he drew back quickly, fingering the saltshaker with a tight expression. "Did I say something to upset you?" she asked. Had she aired too much of her dirty laundry? "I don't want you to think I'm like Brad." Her heart lurched. "Why would I?" "Because I didn't get along with my dad, either. And I haven't spoken to him in over 16 years." "Oh, my." Startled, she leaned forward. "That's a long time." Much too long, Traci thought. "Why did you turn away from your father?" she asked, unnerved by the sudden parallel between her exhusband and Daniel Crow. CHAPTER TEN Daniel ran his thumb over the saltshaker, then looked up to see Traci watching him with a disturbed expression. "I was raised on a reservation," he said, wondering how to describe the primitive world he came from. "It's about 56,000 acres near the Great Smoky Mountains. The main part is called the Qualla Boundary." "And you didn't like living there?" He laughed — a hollow, humorless sound. "I hated it. My father is what's called a traditional Cherokee. I grew up in one of the remote townships. Everything was the old Cherokee way. There was nothing modern about our lifestyle." Traci pushed her salad to the end of the table. "What about your mother? Have you been apart from her all these years, too?" "She died of pneumonia when I was little. I remember my father mourning her, wearing ashes on his head and burning her belongings. It all seems so distant now. When we purified ourselves in the river, I cried." He released the saltshaker and sent it spinning. "I couldn't believe she was gone." Her gaze locked onto his. "I'm sorry." "Yeah, me, too." How many years had he longed for a maternal touch, a woman to hold and comfort him? "My aunts helped out, but it wasn't the same. They were older, matronly, I suppose. But at least they weren't as traditional as my father." "So everyone on the reservation doesn't live the old way?"
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"No. Some people have newer homes, and some have attended college. You can't lump everyone together." He lifted his water, took a drink. "My father and I barely eked out a living, relying on the tourist season for our income. But what bothered me the most was Dad's attitude. "He was a damn fine craftsman, but he didn't mind selling his jewelry to the tacky gift shops in town. To me, it was degrading. I hated being a poor little Indian kid stringing beads and painting T-shirts for my next meal." Traci tilted her head, her voice quiet. "I assume you argued about it." He nodded. "The more I expressed an interest in leaving the rez, the more upset he got. 'This is your homeland,' he kept telling me. 'This is where you belong.' You see, the Eastern Band are descendants of the Cherokees who hid in the mountains rather than be forced to march along the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma." "That's quite a legacy, Daniel." "I know." A twist of guilt tightened his chest. "But I still had the right to find my own way in the world. I wanted my dad to understand, to support my decision, but he never did." "So you left?" "But not without a major fight. And not without denouncing my heritage." Traci frowned, making the guilt worse. "Where did you go?" "To South Carolina, to Charleston. I was 18 years old and determined to get rich someday. It became the focus of my life." He glanced away, unable to tell Traci about the rest of his life, about the wife and child he had buried. Daniel didn't want to admit how lost he was or why he had been drawn to the haunted halls of Orchid House. CHAPTER ELEVEN The following afternoon, the wind blew with a cutting edge. Traci walked behind Daniel and Parker, the narrow path flanked by perennial shrubs. "The original owner was a lumber baron," Daniel said. "And he built this estate for his Southern wife. But I suppose you already know all of that." Traci moved along, warming her hands in her coat pockets. "I don't mind hearing about it again." And she still wondered why Daniel had chosen an isolated mansion for his home. Were the rumors about him true? Did he really keep a room on the second floor of Orchid House locked, refusing the cleaning lady access? Supposedly he spent hours and hours alone in that room, shutting out the world around him. They stopped at an ornate iron gate, and Parker looked up. "Who lives here, Daniel?" "No one. This is a carriage house. In the old days, it's where the horses and buggies were kept." "How come it has so many floors?" "Because there used to be a hayloft and rooms for the stable boys. But I hired someone to remodel it, and now I use it for a garage and workshop."
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And that was why they were here, Traci thought. Daniel had offered to loan her one of his Camaros. Although he'd sold his business, he still collected old Chevys. A hobby, he'd told her, that kept him busy tinkering beneath their hoods. They entered through barn-style doors, and Parker gasped. "Wow. Look at all those cars, Mom." Yes, she thought, practically stumbling over her feet. Look at them. Sleek and shiny, Daniel's vehicles were restored to perfection. Each classic model was parked on a black-and-white vinyl floor, making the expansive interior look like a showroom. "You don't intend to loan me one of these, do you?" She couldn't imagine borrowing something so valuable, so extravagant. "Sure do." He motioned to a racy red Camaro, its chrome polished to a reflective shine. "This one is the same year as yours." "I can't drive that." "Why not?" "Yeah, Mom. Why not?" Traci glanced at her son, who had just mimicked Daniel's question. "Because," she said to both of them, "it's too nice. What if I scratch the paint?" "A pretty lady should drive a pretty car," Daniel countered. "Besides, it's only for a few days, just until I fix the oil leak in yours." She shook her head. "I appreciate your generosity, but repairing my car is more than enough. I'll work out my own transportation." "Let me do this, Traci." Daniel said quietly. She met his gaze and realized he was offering more than a car. He wanted her to need him, even in a small, simple way. "Okay," she said, accepting the loaner. "Good." He smiled, sending her heart askew. She knew she shouldn't be getting this close to him, that their attraction was dangerous, but she couldn't stay away. He was too magnetic, too hypnotic to ignore. Traci closed her eyes. What was she doing? Hoping to heal him? A man who had walked away from his father and denounced his heritage? His problems were too big for her to tackle, but here she was, clinging to that foolish notion. He brushed her hand. "Let's head back to the house, and I'll show you around." They walked in silence, but she imagined voices whispering in the wind. What secrets did Orchid House keep hidden behind its massive walls? And why did Daniel spend hours alone, locked in a mysterious room? Approaching the front door, Traci hesitated. Once she crossed the threshold, there would be no turning back. She would be entering Daniel's secluded world, rumors, ghosts, and all.
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CHAPTER TWELVE The mansion was big and opulent — almost too beautiful. The entryway featured a double curved staircase and a marble floor. A parlor displayed heavy antique furnishings and a custom fireplace. Velvet drapes trimmed leaded windows. Daniel didn't invite them upstairs. Instead he took them on a tour of the first floor, including a picturesque veranda. The house reflected Southern-style living on the east coast — a strange concept in Traci's mind. But then, as Daniel had said, the mansion had been built for a Southern belle who missed her homeland. They stood on the veranda, overlooking the grounds. Beyond the lawn, the forest expanded into a maze of trees. She wondered if Daniel walked through the forest on moonlit nights, the way people claimed he did. There were so many rumors surrounding him, so many mysteries. Feeling a sudden chill, Traci tightened her coat. "Are you cold?" he asked. We can go inside and make some hot chocolate." "Sure, that sounds nice," she responded, knowing that Parker would enjoy the soothing treat. Traci and her son followed their host into the kitchen, a room as massive and grand as the rest. Daniel prepared three cups of instant hot chocolate, and Traci studied Parker's expression. He had taken in every detail of the first floor, every chandelier, every brocade sofa, every marbled alcove. "Do you ever slide down the banisters?" he asked Daniel. "No. I can't say that I have." "What do you do here all by yourself?" the child pressed. "Don't worry about me, partner. I keep busy." Traci watched steam rising from the cups. "It's an incredible house," she said, trying not to think about that rumored locked door. Daniel wasn't being deliberately evasive, but he seemed different now that he was in his home. More elusive, she supposed, which gave credence to the cleaning woman's story. "The decor is exquisite." He stirred the drinks and distributed them. "Thanks, but I bought it furnished. Everything was already here." They sat at a large oak table, the wood scarred from centuries of wear. She supposed the servants of Orchid House used to dine in the kitchen. Of course it hadn't been called Orchid House then. That name had come later — with the perfumed ghosts. But Traci wasn't sure if she believed the house was actually haunted. No one had ever seen the ghosts, and the scent of flowers could be conjured by one's imagination, couldn't it? The ghosts were rumored to be the daughters of the Southern belle and the lumber baron. Supposedly they were two beautiful young women who had danced and dreamed and refused to marry the staid suitors who had been chosen for them. Both had grown old waiting for true love, believing in choices of the heart. Somehow, Traci didn't envision them floating through the mansion like dark, demented ghouls. She turned to see Daniel watching her. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.
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"Nothing," she said, although orchids filled her mind. The sisters had grown a species called lady of the night, known for its exquisite evening perfume. And Traci understood why they had waited a lifetime for the men of their dreams. She had married the wrong man, and he hadn't fulfilled her deepest fantasy. She wanted what the sisters had hoped for — the heated attraction, the ache, the intimacy that came with falling hopelessly in love. But God help her, she knew who made her feel that way. And he was practically a stranger, a secretive man she barely knew. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Daniel wished he could read Traci's mind. She looked pretty and sweet, like a fairy-tale maiden fantasizing about a prince. Auburn curls fell loose about her shoulders, and a cream-colored sweater clung to petite curves. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips a pale shade of pink. She met his gaze, and the kitchen turned as balmy as a Southern night. Did she know how badly he wanted her? That he awakened every morning naked and aroused? She moistened her lips, and he leaned into the table. If he kissed her, would he break the trance? Or would they slip into a dream? A sleek, sensual fantasy? "Hey, how come you two are staring at each other?" Startled, Daniel and Traci nearly jumped out of their skins. Somehow, they had forgotten that her six-yearold son Parker was still in the room. "We weren't," she said much too quickly, batting a curl from her eye. "Yes, you were, Mom." "Well, we didn't know we were. That happens to adults sometimes." "Oh. I thought maybe you was playing that game, to see who blinked first." Both Daniel and Traci managed a smile, and the awkward moment passed without further discussion. He got to his feet. "How about a snack? I've got sandwich fixings." "Sure." Parker popped up to explore the contents of the refrigerator. They chose ham and Swiss cheese, with mustard, mayonnaise, and thick slices of tomato. The child appeared to be enjoying himself, and Daniel realized he was having fun, too. It actually felt good to have company, to see his orderly kitchen buzzing with life. "Hey, Daniel?" Parker licked a dollop of mustard from his thumb, and received a quiet nudge and a napkin from his mother. Daniel withheld a grin. "What is it, partner?" "Can I ask you something?" "Sure, go ahead." The boy dumped a handful of potato chips onto his plate. "How come you don't have a Christmas tree?"
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Daniel's knees nearly buckled. He gripped the counter and tried to school his emotions. Christmas was still over two weeks away. What should he say? I intend to buy one soon? Cut one down myself? Haul in an evergreen as tall as the ceiling? Yeah, right. He looked at Parker. How could he lie to a six-year-old? A kid with innocent eyes and a misbehaving cowlick? Parker hadn't meant to knock him for a loop. "I live alone," he said. "I don't need a tree." "That don't matter. Grandpa lives by himself, and he has one." But your grandpa didn't lose a wife and child five days before Christmas, Daniel thought. He didn't come home from a business trip to find his house a skeleton of charred remains. "Me and my mom can go with you to pick out a tree," Parker persisted. "And we can help decorate it, too. That'd be okay, wouldn't it, Mom?" "Yes," she said, her voice softer and more aware than her son's. "As long as Daniel doesn't mind." "That's a real nice offer, but I think I'll pass." He let out the breath he'd been holding, struggling for an excuse to satisfy Parker. "Santa Claus isn't going to come to my house." "Why? Have you been bad?" Yes, he thought, knowing he couldn't explain. "I didn't ask Santa for any presents." "Christmas isn't only about presents. It's about family and friends, too. Just get a tree, Daniel. Then you'll know what I mean." "You think so?" he asked, wondering if the vibrant little boy who answered to his son's name was right — if finding peace at Christmas would be that easy. CHAPTER FOURTEEN Four days later, Traci returned Daniel's car. She pulled up to his house and saw her own Camaro parked on the street. "Oh, my," she said to herself. Her weary, old vehicle actually sparkled. What in the world had he done to it? Certainly more than plug an oil leak. Daniel came onto the porch and met her on the street. He smiled, and her knees went weak. His hair, damp from a recent shower, was combed away from his face, intensifying his raw-boned features and penetrating eyes. He stuffed his hands in the side pockets of his denim jacket, his jeans riding low and sexy on his hips. Traci wanted to touch him. Everywhere. "My car looks awesome," she said. He moved closer. "I detailed it. It's amazing what a good wax job will do for the paint." "How did you get the bumpers so shiny?" She noticed they were no longer mottled with rust. "Replaced them."
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Traci tilted her head, scolding him with a friendly scowl. "You didn't have to do that." "I wanted to. Besides I've got plenty of extra parts around here. It was no big deal." "It is to me. Thank you so much." She wanted to hug him, but his hands were still jammed in his pockets. "I fixed the heater, too," he said, glancing back at the car. "Damn, Traci. It's been freezing lately. You should have told me it wasn't working." "I didn't think of it." True, the December air was cold and misty, but Traci barely noticed. She had something more important on her mind. She knew she was falling in love with Daniel Crow, losing her heart to this elusive man. There was no point in denying her feelings or pretending they didn't exist. Hadn't she dreamed about him that first night? Experienced an ache so deep that her heart actually hurt? And what about every night since? He continued to slip into her subconscious, becoming part of her. But why him? she asked herself. Why this troubled, complicated man? He shifted his feet, scraping his boots on the road. "I got a Christmas tree." Startled, she met his gaze. "You did?" "Yeah. It's a living one, and it was already decorated, so I didn't have to fuss with lights and all that. I guess I'll plant it after the holidays." "Can I see it?" she asked, wishing she had the courage to tell him how she felt. "Sure. It's pretty small, though." "That's okay." They entered his home, and he led her to the parlor, a room filled with rich brocades and warm, engraved woods. The tree graced a mahogany table, tiny ornaments shimmering on silvery-blue branches. A fresh, clean scent rose in the air, and she decided it was the most perfect evergreen on earth, especially since her son, Parker, had inspired Daniel to buy it. Yes, she thought. The tree complemented this grand old mansion. Someday the blue spruce would grow tall and powerful, its foliage magnificent against the sky. "I can't believe people think Orchid House is haunted." She glanced around the parlor, feeling the beauty of Christmas. "It's too beautiful for ghosts." She could actually imagine living here with Daniel, cuddling beside him on long winter nights, going for walks on bright, sunny days. She envisioned them raising Parker — loving and laughing and being a family. But when she turned to look at Daniel, her heart sank. He was frowning, his eyes dark and distant. "Traci," he said, his voice painfully quiet. "I think it's time I told you about my wife and son." CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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"You're married?" Traci stared at Daniel, her eyes wide with shock. "And you have a child?" "No." He shook his head, wishing he could shake away the memories haunting him. "I'm a —" Widower, he thought, hating the word. "My wife and son died, six years ago, near Christmas." "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry." She reached out to take his hand, but Daniel stepped back. He hadn't let anyone console him then, and he wouldn't let Traci comfort him now. If she got too close, he would fall into her arms. Kiss her. Stroke her skin and pull her tight against him. Slow, sultry lovemaking. That's what he needed from Traci, and she deserved more than just sex. "My wife's name was Clarissa," he said. "She was from Charleston. A young, beautiful debutante, a Southern socialite through and through. We had nothing in common." He removed his jacket and tossed it on a chair. "Nothing. Except this wild, almost unbelievable, attraction." And he had wanted Clarissa the moment he'd laid eyes on her. "Some people thought I didn't belong in her world. Granted, I was a millionaire, but I didn't come from old money." Traci let out an audible breath and sat on a Louis XVI-style settee. It struck him how pretty she looked in his 17th-century mansion with her tousled auburn hair and simple, small-town clothes. He felt the same wild, almost unbelievable, attraction toward her, the same instant want — a feeling that confused him. Traci was so different from his wife. "Did it really matter that you weren't born rich?" she asked. "Not to Clarissa, but it became an issue with her parents. I wasn't the husband they had envisioned for their daughter. To them, I was still a reservation Indian." And he had tried so damn hard to shed that image, the stigma that had shamed him since his youth. "But Clarissa married me anyway, and we bought an estate in the historical district." He glanced around the room. "It looked a lot like this one." "I see," she whispered, acknowledging why Orchid House had appealed to him. "It wasn't enough." Daniel frowned at the Christmas tree. "I needed to prove to her parents that pedigree wasn't important. But the only way I knew how to do that was to exceed their net worth. If I had more money than they did, then they would have to respect me." He snorted. "You should have seen me. Short hair, stylish clothes, rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of Charleston. I loved my wife. Loved her more than you can imagine, but fitting into her society became an obsession." "Did Clarissa love you?" "Yeah." He swallowed the pain, the lump rising in his throat. "But she didn't understand why I was so driven to prove myself." Traci fingered a tapestry pillow. "Did her parents ever accept you?" "No. Not even when our baby was born. They loved him because he was their grandson, but they didn't like the idea that he was a mixed-blood. It didn't matter that I had no intention of teaching him about his Cherokee side. He was still part Indian." Daniel resisted the urge to pace, to unleash the pain and guilt. "His name was Parker. My son's name was Parker."
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"Oh, my. Oh." She placed a hand against her blouse. "I don't know what to say. It almost seems like more than a coincidence. But it can't be." Traci looked up at him, and he wanted to touch her, lose himself in all that sweet, girlish beauty. She was so pure and good, so unlike him. Daniel had tainted himself with the sin of greed. "Parker was only three months old." He closed his eyes, and then opened them, his heart hurting. "It shouldn't have happened. My wife and child shouldn't have burned in that house." Meeting Traci's gaze, he took a deep breath, determined to tell her the truth, to admit what had been haunting him all these years. "It was my fault," he said. "Clarissa and Parker died because of me." CHAPTER SIXTEEN "You don't mean that." Traci didn't believe Daniel was responsible for the death of his family. "Yes, I do." He glanced at the tree. "Clarissa asked me not to go away. It was so close to Christmas, and she didn't understand why that business deal was so important." He dragged a hand through his hair. "But I didn't stay home because closing the deal meant a lot of money. With me, it was always about the money." "You were trying to find acceptance," she said, defending him. "Maybe you went about it the wrong way, but you were confused and hurting." She couldn't imagine living her entire life ashamed of who she was or where she had come from. And she couldn't imagine being shunned by her in-laws. "You weren't there when your wife and child died. You didn't set the fire." "Maybe if I'd been there, I could have saved them." "And maybe you would have died, too." "At least they wouldn't have been alone." He released a shallow breath. "Clarissa used to burn these tall, scented candles, but she must have forgotten to extinguish them that night. They said she probably knocked one over without realizing it, maybe when she got up to feed the baby." He fingered a branch on the tree, and Traci could see the ache in his heart, the loss and the loneliness. With his distant eyes and rough denim clothes, he looked like what he was — a man hiding from the rest of the world. "It's time to heal, Daniel. To stop blaming yourself." "I don't know how." She noticed the gentle way he touched the tree, the reverence and respect he gave the tiny ornaments. "You're healing now." He met her gaze, and she wanted to go to him, put her arms around his waist, lean her head against his shoulder. He was so big and broad, yet so vulnerable. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You bought a living tree, something that would grow in the sun or the snow, something you could nourish forever."
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"I bought it because of you and your son." "Then we're part of your healing," she told him, feeling emotional and misty-eyed. She wanted to be part of Daniel, to be his friend, his lover, his mate. But now wasn't the time to tell him, not when he was still mourning the loss of his wife and child. "But the tree is for Clarissa and Parker, too. You can plant it for them." "Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. They both fell silent, the tiny blue spruce shimmering between them. Once again, Traci imagined it growing strong and tall, its silvery branches reaching for the heavens. Daniel had surrounded himself with trees, she realized. A thick, dense forest wove an earthly pattern behind his house. Did the gray birches and the shadowy willows beckon him? Call out to him when he couldn't sleep? "Are the rumors about you true?" she asked. "Do you really go for walks in the moonlight?" "Sometimes. The forest seems enchanted at night." Yes, she thought, picturing him shrouded in mist, moonlight glinting off his raven-colored hair. "What about this house, Daniel? Do you think it's haunted?" "Not the way people say it is." He held out his hand. "Come with me, Traci. There's something I want to show you." She stood and accepted his hand, knowing he was taking her to the second floor, to the mysterious room he kept locked. They climbed the double-curved staircase and walked down the hall. He was still holding her hand, and she felt warm from his touch. The second floor of Orchid House was decorated with turn-of-the-century antiques. They passed bedrooms with armoires and carved mahogany beds. They stopped in front of the only door that remained closed. Daniel removed a key from his pocket, and Traci's heartbeat quickened. When they entered the expansive room, she noticed a workstation laden with art supplies and a tall easel draped with a large white cloth. She turned to Daniel. "Do you paint?" He nodded. "I used to when I was younger, but I didn't start up again until I came here." "Orchid House inspired you?" He nodded again, his eyes intense. "And now I want you to see the ghosts." Daniel unveiled the painting, and Traci gasped. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Traci stared at the canvas. Angels.
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Daniel had painted two breathtaking angels, their feathery wings gilded and glorious, their arms filled with white orchids. "They're beautiful." So lifelike, so soft and ethereal. Both had long, flowing hair and eyes as blue as the sky. "I bought this mansion because it reminded me of the house I owned with Clarissa. But I also wanted to brood with the ghosts. I wanted to be locked inside with them." "But the ghosts turned out to be angels." Which meant he had been living with two heavenly creatures. "I've never actually seen them," he said. "But I feel them — their presence, their aura. I painted them the way I imagine they look." "I smelled orchids on the night we kissed," she said. "The flowers called lady of the night. Is that what they're holding?" "Yes." Daniel covered the painting and reached for Traci's hand. Without speaking, he led her into the hall, and then stopped to look at her. She knew what this moment meant, how vital it was to the rest of her life. Either she and Daniel would part ways or they would become lovers. Their attraction was too strong to settle for something in between. Moving closer, she skimmed his cheek, his warm, bronzed skin. "I want you," she said. He searched her gaze, his voice rough. "If we do this, Traci, I can't make any promises. I'm not ready to make a commitment." But soon he would be, she thought. The angels would heal his spirit. Daniel would be all right. She unbuttoned her blouse, offering herself to the man she loved. He watched, his eyes dark and mesmerizing. And the instant she unhooked her bra, he sent her a slow, Southern smile. "Will you come to my room, sweet Traci?" "Yes." Please, yes. His four-poster bed was draped with an emerald-green comforter, and the balcony door invited a gust of the cool December air. Daniel opened a dresser drawer and fisted a foil packet. "I bought these the day after I met you. It seemed wrong at the time, but you made me want again. I knew then that I couldn't stay celibate forever. It was my way of telling myself that I needed to make love again." "I understand," she said, pleased by his honesty. "I'm so glad it's me you're going to be with." They stood beside the mahogany bed and caressed each other. He stroked her back and lowered his head to taste her nipples. She delved into his hair and let the silky length spill over her. She knew he was her destiny. The man she had been waiting for all of her life. She whispered his name as he finished undressing her.
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When he dropped to his knees, she gripped the bedpost, stunned and aroused. Traci knew what he was going to do. Eagerly, she waited for his intimate kiss. He licked and suckled and drove her to near madness. Desperate for more, she fell deeper into the moment, into the hot, wicked climax. It flooded her body with an urgent need, filling her until she staggered and swayed and fell bonelessly into his waiting arms. He placed her on the bed and shed his clothes. She blinked and focused, drinking in the sight of him, the pure masculine beauty. Raw, ropey sinew and strong, firm muscles. She had to touch him — his chest, his belly, his sex. She stroked his erection, and he dragged air into his lungs. "I need you," he said. "So damn much."vHe braced himself above her, and she knew he couldn't wait. Grasping the foil packet from the dresser, he tore it open. As Traci lifted her hips, he entered her, fast and hard and deep. So incredibly deep. Sensation slid over sensation, flesh over flesh. They moved in the same wondrous rhythm, kissing and touching, hands and mouths questing. He thrust full tilt, and she rose to meet him. The wind swirled around the room, and they locked hands and held tight. They were immersed, steeped in the feel of each other. Lost in the moment, Traci closed her eyes. Had this joining, this beautiful mating, this mind-spinning climax made them one? CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Traci smiled. Being naked in the middle of the afternoon felt wonderful. She trailed a finger down Daniel's chest and evoked a smile from him. He looked dark and sexy and sated. "How did you end up in Pennsylvania?" she asked. In her tiny hometown. It seemed too good to be true. "I was just passing through, and I saw this house. I never really intended to settle in the east, but then, I hadn't intended to settle anywhere. I was drifting, going from state to state." He stretched, his body long and fluid. The sheet was draped just below his navel. Traci wanted him again, but she decided to behave herself. "You're an incredible artist." And an incredible lover, she thought. "Thanks." He shifted his weight, stirring the mattress. "My mom used to paint. I guess it's in the blood." "Do you ever think about the reservation, Daniel? There must have been something you liked about it." He glanced at the balcony. The door was closed now, the room still. "It's beautiful there, especially in October. It's the most colorful time of year. And the most cultural, I suppose. There's a festival every fall." She detected a sense of longing in his voice. "Do you miss your dad at all?" "I —" Daniel paused to push his hair away from his face, frowning a little. "Yeah, I do." The frown tilted into a small, reminiscent smile. "He used to call me Gv-he. Wildcat. I was such a restless kid. And then I grew up to be so big. Even as a teenager, I was taller and broader than my dad."
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"You should visit him. Sixteen years is a long time to stay away. Just think about going home," she said, hoping to persuade him. "Family is important." "I know. And it isn't as if I haven't tried to contact him. I've been sending him money, but he returns the checks." Traci skimmed Daniel's cheek. "Maybe it's you he wants and not your money." "And maybe he's just stubborn." She lifted an eyebrow. "Like his wildcat son?" "All right, smart aleck, I'll think about it." She smiled. "Good." After a moment of silence, he caught her hand and moved it down his body, his eyes filled with sudden mischief. "So, sweet Traci, are we done talking now?" She laughed and closed her fingers around him. Yes, she thought. Being naked in the middle of the afternoon felt wonderful. *** Three days later, Daniel stopped by Traci's house. She answered the door, wishing she looked prettier. She was dressed for the diner, wearing the pink-and-white uniform that conflicted with the color of her hair. "Hi. I wasn't expecting you. I have to work today." She felt for the curls falling out of her hastily twisted bun. It was foolish, she knew, to be self-conscious around him. In the past few days, they had seen and touched every inch of each other. They had even showered together, kissing and caressing through the soapscented steam. "Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk." "Sure." His expression seemed a little too serious. Concerned, she invited him in. They sat beside each other on the printed sofa. "Is everything okay?" she asked. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said. About the importance of family." He tunneled all 10 fingers through his hair. "I'm going back to North Carolina, Traci. I'm going to see my dad." Now she understood why he looked so serious. "So you're going home for Christmas?" Traci wanted Daniel to spend the holidays with her, but she was glad he had decided to make peace with his father. It was, she thought, the last phase of his emotional healing. "How long will you be gone?" "I'm not sure. If my dad wants me to stay, I might end up moving back there." Suddenly she couldn't breathe. He took her hand, and she willed herself not to cry. She couldn't fault Daniel for trying to do the right thing, but she couldn't stop her heart from breaking, either. She still hadn't told him that she loved him, and now she knew she couldn't. "You've done so much for me," he said. "Made me feel whole and alive again. But you can't make things better between my dad and me. Only I can do that."
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Traci clung to his hand. "I'll miss you." "I'll miss you, too. You and Parker are like family to me." But they weren't, she thought. They had only been a part of Daniel's life for a few short weeks. And that wasn't nearly long enough to keep him. CHAPTER NINETEEN Daniel and his father sat across from each other in a steak house located in the Cherokee Pavilion. The pavilion was new, and so was Harrah's — a casino featuring 60,000 square feet of gaming space. Vegasstyle entertainment, Daniel thought, on his homeland. He gazed at the man he had abandoned 16 years ago. George Crow had aged, but the lines around his eyes and the gray in his hair managed to strengthen his appeal. "So what do you think of all this?" Daniel asked, gesturing to their surroundings. George looked up from his meal. "It's good for the Real People," he said, using a traditional term for the Cherokee. "They share in the gaming profits." Daniel smiled. His father was still an old-fashioned man, but apparently he had accepted the growth of his people and their plunge into the modern world. He seemed wise to Daniel now, a proud Cherokee warrior. "You've changed, Dad." "So have you, Gv-he. But you've lost so much." Daniel's smile faded. In spite of his monetary success, he couldn't deny the years of turmoil and pain that had come with it. He'd told his father about Clarissa and the baby, praying they were at peace in the Nightland. Reaching for his coffee, he glanced out the window. Frost fogged the glass, a reminder that Christmas was just days away. Christmas. Now the holiday season made him think of Traci and Parker, of their smiles and laughter. He missed them terribly. He'd sent Parker a passel of books and toys from one of the reservation gift shops, but he couldn't find an appropriate gift for Traci. There was nothing he could give her that would express how he felt. She had changed his life, encouraging him to face his past. "Did I make you sad?" George asked. Daniel turned away from the window and met his father's gaze. He shook his head, hoping he didn't look as lonely as he felt. "No. I'm fine." "You don't seem fine." "No, really, I am. It just feels strange to be back here." "It's good to have you home." They stared at each other, man to man. Daniel felt a lump forming in his throat. "I've missed you."
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"I've missed you, too." Before he embarrassed himself with watery eyes, Daniel cut into his steak. His emotions teetered, tipping his heart. He could feel it tumbling in his chest, struggling for balance. He couldn't remember the last time he had dined in a restaurant with his dad. But then, money had been tight years ago. Frowning, he sipped his coffee. George Crow still lived in the same modest home, the same tiny, hilltop dwelling. "Why did you return the checks?" "What would I do with all that money? I have everything I need. The tourists come in the summer, and the winters are quiet and serene. That's enough for me." "Do you want me to stay, Dad? To move back?" "Is that what you want?" "I want to be part of your life, and I want to be Cherokee again." "You can be one of the Real People without living here. I didn't used to think so, but I know better now." He set his fork down. "You and I, we're from different generations, but we're both still Cherokee. Still father and son." Feeling shamed, Daniel leaned against the table, his voice quiet. "How can you say that after I denounced my heritage?" "Because you struggled with it. You knew it was wrong, and it affected everything you did." "It's been a long, hard road." And it amazed him that his dad could forgive him so easily. "I shouldn't have been so tough on you. I should have encouraged you to spread your wings." "Thank you. That means a lot to me." "And you coming back means a lot to me." Although George smiled, it faded quickly. "But I can tell you're confused. Who is she, son? Who walks in your soul?" Daniel caught his breath. "You think I'm in love?" His father looked him square in the eye. "It can happen more than once. Your wife and child have been gone a long time, and now your heart is beating for someone new. Isn't it?" CHAPTER TWENTY Daniel's heart was beating, thumping wildly in his chest. He stood at Traci's door, his father beside him. Traci stared at both of them. "Oh, my." She wore a burgundy dress, and her hair was fixed in a loose topknot, red curls framing her face. Daniel wanted to draw her into his arms and never let go. "Hi," he said instead. "Merry Christmas." "Hi." She blinked, and Daniel introduced his father.
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George smiled and took her hand. "You're pretty," he told her. Her eyes misted. "Thank you. Come in, please." The mouthwatering aroma of holiday food filled the house. A turkey was roasting in the oven, and a pumpkin pie cooled on the counter. They entered the living room where lights twinkled on a tall evergreen. Wads of colorful paper and strings of shiny ribbon were strewn all over the floor. Parker and Tom sat on the sofa, inspecting one of Parker's new toys. Tom smiled, and Parker leaped up and ran toward Daniel. He lifted the boy and held tight, smoothing the child's cowlick. This is what Christmas is about, he thought. Family, friends, and a warm feeling inside. Tom and George took to each other immediately, chatting like old army buddies. Or possibly newfound relatives — two wise old men who appreciated the simple things life had to offer. Traci slipped into the kitchen to check on dinner, and Daniel followed her. She leaned against the counter and released a shaky breath. "I'm so surprised you're here," she said. "And with your father." "He wanted to meet you." "Really? Why?" "Because I told him about you and Parker and how much you helped me." Daniel realized he was nervous. Traci seemed a little wary, and he prayed she would accept the gift he brought her. "Are you moving to North Carolina after the holidays?" she asked. "No. My dad is going back, but I'm staying here." She twisted a strand of her unruly hair. "You are?" "Yes." He moved closer. "And I —" He paused and reached into the suit jacket he wore. Handing her a tiny wrapped package, he waited for her to open it, too anxious to finish his speech. She fumbled with the paper, and when she uncovered the gift, she met his gaze, her bright green eyes searching his. *** Hours later, Traci and Daniel sat on the porch swing. Snow had begun to fall, but Traci wasn't cold. The man she loved had proposed, and the ring on her finger glittered like a falling star. Wishes, she thought, do come true. "When did you know?" she asked. "That I loved you?" His hair blew in the breeze, like silk against midnight. "I'm not sure. It might have happened the moment I saw you. Of course I was in denial. I didn't think I was capable of loving again." She leaned her head on his shoulder and watched snowflakes flutter to the ground. "Where are we going to live?"
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"In Orchid House, if that's okay with you. There's plenty of room there, and I was hoping that —" He turned to nuzzle her neck. "That you would give me lots of babies." Traci pictured Parker with a houseful of brothers and sisters. The image made her dizzy with happiness. She clung to Daniel's arm, knowing he would make a strong, caring father. "Cherokee babies," she said. "Yeah." He smiled at her, pride shining in his eyes. She touched his cheek, and when their lips met in a tender kiss, the scent of orchids swirled in the crisp, winter air. Traci closed her eyes and thanked Daniel's angels, the winged ladies of the night, for blessing them with a Christmas love that would last forever.
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Pulse Point (Charlotte's Angel) by Catherine Spencer We gave five authors from five different Harlequin and Silhouette series the same opening paragraph, and asked each of them to write the rest of the story. The result is five very distinctive individual stories that are compelling, engaging and, of course, romantic! want to whet your appetite for romance? Read the opening paragraph we gave to the authors: Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society. Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte's pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss. "I'm sorry." The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart. Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fianc?. "John! I thought you were dead!"
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| Chapter One Seeing her own horrified fascination mirrored on his face, she groped for the nearest object ? anything solid enough to keep her from keeling over ? and found herself grasping the edge of one of the spindly wroughtiron tables scattered the length of the balcony. Clearly, he hadn?t heard the sound of the balcony doors opening, which wasn?t surprising, given the amount of heavy breathing he?d been enjoying. As for noticing a third party had arrived, he?d only had eyes ? not to mention lips and hands! ? for the dimpled blond pressed so snugly against him that, for one briefly hysterical second, Charlotte wondered if their bodies were held together by a strip of Velcro. Tearing himself free, he spun around and squinted disbelievingly into the light blinding him from the room behind Charlotte, the winsome brown eyes she?d once thought reminded her of an eager puppy seeming now more appropriately likened to a shortsighted troll. "Charlie? Is that you?" "Who else?" she said, rallying her pride. "Unless, of course, false rumors of your death have been broadcast to a host of other fiancées, too?" He opened his mouth to reply, then apparently finding himself completely at a loss, snapped it closed again. Of the two of them, he, it appeared, was vastly more taken aback. Just as well, Charlotte decided. There was nothing like the element of surprise to startle a man of limited wit into spilling out the truth ? and John , she belatedly realized, didn?t have much to offer in the way of sparkling intellect. "Fiancée?" Dimples adjusted her cleavage, pulled the neckline of her dress back where it belonged, and fixed him in a reproachful stare. "I?m the one wearing your ring, so what?s she talking about, Johnnie?" "Nothing," he said, pointing her firmly toward the party taking place beyond the club?s elegant French doors. "It?s a joke in very bad taste that I don?t expect a lady of your breeding to appreciate. Go inside, precious, and leave me to deal with it." "It?" Charlotte mocked, once they were alone. "Is that what I?ve been reduced to in your estimation, John? A tasteless, inconvenient ?it??"
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"A figure of speech only," he shot back irritably. "Your problem, Charlie, is that you take every word coming out of a man?s mouth literally." "Should I interpret that to mean you had something other than wedded bliss in mind when you proposed to me, six months ago in Barbados?" Growing more rattled by the moment, he went on the offensive. "Look," he huffed, "this party wasn?t arranged by that outfit you work for, so I don?t know how you managed to wangle an invitation to an upscale affair far beyond what you?re used to, but I can tell you this: If you think bulldozing your way in here and making a scene is going to accomplish any sort of positive outcome, you?re sadly mistaken. I will not be coerced into resurrecting what can only be described as a moment of madness. Holiday romances aren?t designed to last, as any fool can tell you." "You?re right." "Glad you agree." He swiped one palm against the other, as if he?d found something downright nasty crawling over his hand, and straightened his black bow tie. "So may we please forget Barbados ever happened, and simply go our separate ways?" "No, we may not," she said. "I?m not quite finished with you yet." He flung her an outraged glare. "Don?t be difficult, Charlie. We are finished. Not that we ever really got started. But the woman I fully intend to marry is waiting for me in the banquet hall, and nothing you can say or do is going to keep me from her." "Perhaps you should bring her back out here again, then," she said. "Perhaps she should hear what I?ve got to say. It might spare her a lot of grief down the line." He paled a little at that. "I never figured you to be the sort of person who?d go out of her way to hurt an innocent bystander." ""Appealing to my better nature isn?t going to work, John," she said flatly. "I have questions begging to be answered, and I?m not going to disappear into the woodwork until my curiosity?s been satisfied. That much, at least, you do owe me. So either make your excuses to the future Mrs. Weatherby and afford me the courtesy of a few more minutes of your time, or else we can have this conversation inside and let everyone listen in. I can?t speak for you, of course, but I don?t have anything shameful to hide." "He pursed his lips ? lips Charlotte had once found acceptably kissable. But she doubted that would have been the case if he?d pinched them together in the sort of tight disapproval directed at her now. It must, she decided, have had something to do with too much tropical moonlight, rum punch, and hypnotic steel bands. ""Wait here," he said, wrenching open the balcony doors. "I?ll be right back." "Not until he?d disappeared into the house did aftershock set in. The self-control which had carried her this far seeped away. Numbly, she staggered to the guardrail edging the balcony and fought to draw breath into her beleaguered lungs. "She thought she was alone. That no one had witnessed her humiliation. "She was wrong. From the deep shadows at the other end of the balcony came the sound of slow, deliberate applause. "Very good!" a baritone voice, laced with amusement and a slight Italian accent, declared. "After a performance like that, cara, I can hardly wait for Act Two." Chapter Two
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"Another bombshell, following so close after the first, was one more than Charlotte could handle. Practically jumping out of her skin, she gave vent to a tiny shriek and collapsed weakly against the balustrade. A sob popped out of nowhere and hung in the still night air like a waterlogged bubble. "Footsteps approached. A darker shadow, imposingly tall and broad, emerged from the obscurity cloaking the far end of the balcony. "No tears, please!" that same deep voice ordered. "Crying?s not going to change anything." ""I don?t know who you think you are, dishing out unsolicited advice," she choked, surreptitiously wiping away a tear, which owed everything to humiliation and nothing to grief. "And in case no one?s ever told you this before, gentlemen don?t stoop to eavesdropping." ""This one does when a couple puts on a floor show such as just happened here. Furthermore, if the specimen who just slithered back inside is anything to go by, I suspect you wouldn?t know a gentleman if you fell over one." "He?d stepped into the bright glow spilling through the French doors by then, allowing Charlotte to get her first good look at him. The play of light and shadow on his face emphasized the sweeping curve of his dark eyebrows and lean, square jaw, and stippled his aristocratic cheekbones with the reflected imprint of lashes so long and dense, they ought to have been outlawed. Right on the heels of that observation, though, came another: that she knew him from somewhere ? not well, but such a face was too striking to be easily forgotten. ""Have we met ? before tonight, I mean?" she asked. "You look..." Magnificent! Mesmerizing! Too devastatingly handsome to be real! "... familiar." "His smile, brilliant in the semigloom, shot a thrill of awareness from her throat to her thighs. "I?m flattered you remember. The recently-resurrected John Weatherby monopolized you so thoroughly, we barely exchanged a dozen words the only other time we found ourselves at the same party." "Of course! Memory flooded back: Barbados, early last fall, and her last off-shore assignment for her former employer; the grand old plantation house; the well-bred murmur of guests flocking around a banquet table set on a terrace; a velvet night sky spattered with stars. John, flattering her with his attention, overwhelming her with his charm... "And this man, regarding her now with ironic amusement. Yes, she remembered him! His height and sheer physical presence had been enough to make him stand out from the crowd, even without the flock of hangers-on dogging him and inhaling his every word. "That he?d noticed her had been unexpected. She?d happened to look up from some checklist or other to find him staring at her across the room and, just for a moment, everything else ? the mob of people, the noise ? had melted away and it had seemed there was no one else in the world but the two of them, connected in a glance so riveting she?d hardly known how to draw her gaze away. The next morning, he?d passed her on his way to the breakfast room and complimented her on the fine job she?d done the night before. ""The banquet," he?d said, "was a triumph. Whoever hired you deserves a medal." His gaze had lingered on her face, drifted past her bare, sun-kissed shoulders and all the way down to her legs, then returned to dwell with unsettling intent on her lips. He?d cleared his throat, opened his mouth...and she?d been filled with a sense of expectancy, of elation. "But before he could speak again, his followers had closed ranks around him. He must, she?d decided, swallowing her disappointment as they'd spirited him away, wield a great deal of corporate clout for them to guard him so diligently. ""We met at the Jacoby Plantation," she said now. "How could I have forgotten?"
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""You had a great deal on your mind. And we never were formally introduced." He offered his hand. "I?m Paolo Angelli, and you?re Charlie." ""Charlotte," she said. "Charlotte Fraser. I really don?t care for 'Charlie.'" "His fingers closed around hers. "Charlotte Fraser." The syllables rolled off his tongue, rich and warm as Demerara sugar left melting in the Caribbean sun. "Well, Charlotte Fraser, wait until you?ve dispatched the deplorable Mr. Weatherby before you fall apart ? unless you want to leave him with the impression that you?re still carrying a torch for him?" ""Good grief, no!" She hiccupped, aghast at the idea. "That?s what makes this whole incident so absurd. If he wanted rid of me, he didn?t have to go to such extreme lengths. A simple 'I've changed my mind about us' would have sufficed. It?s not as if we were ever really engaged." ""He never gave you a ring?" ""No. He died before things progressed that far. At least, I thought he did." "Paolo Angelli?s gaze scoured her face. "And were you terribly grief-stricken?" "She averted her eyes and searched for the right words. She didn?t want to come across as cold and heartless, but nor did she wish to convey the wrong impression. He, though, misunderstood her hesitation, let go her hand, and stepped back. ""Forgive me," he said, and there was no missing the reserve cloaking his voice. "I had no right to ask such a question, nor do I wish to revive memories that you obviously find painful." ""It?s not that," she began, anxious to set the record straight. "But he waved her to silence and nodded toward the French doors behind her. "Your not-so-dead fiancé is headed back this way. Save your explanations for him." "And with that, he melted into the shadows again. Chapter Three ""All right, let?s get this over with!" John leaned against the balcony doors and folded his arms. "And make it fast. I don?t want to arouse Louella?s suspicions any more than I already have." ""Louella being your latest fiancée, I assume?" ""My only fiancée, Charlie," he snapped. "I never made it official with you." ""Some might consider that to be a mere technicality, John. A less forgiving woman than I might even go so far as to sue you for breach of promise." "He flushed with anger. "Don?t even think about threatening me! You?ll merely make a laughing stock of yourself and ?" ""Oh, relax!" she said, disgust sour on her tongue. "You?re not worth the effort it would entail. Nor have I any more wish to prolong this meeting than you have. I?d merely like you to clarify a few things, that?s all." ""If I must." He buffed his fingernails on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. If body language really did speak volumes, his shouted boredom to high heaven.
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"Refusing to be put off, she said, "For a start, how did you persuade your friend to write and tell me you?d died?" ""There was no friend, dear." He inspected his nails and gave them a final polish. "I wrote the letter myself." "And clearly did so without a twinge of conscience. Was quite proud of himself, in fact. "And I suppose your ski cabin didn?t burn to the ground, either?" ""Certainly it did. I made sure of that. Overloaded the woodstove and left its door open. The place went up like a rocket in 30 minutes flat." "Puzzled, she shook her head. "Why on earth would you take such drastic and risky measures just to end your involvement with me?" ""Oh, you really are naive, Charlie!" he sneered. "You played no part in it, at least not directly. I did it for the insurance." "More mystified by the second, she said, "I don?t understand." "He gave a long-suffering sigh. "I?m a high-maintenance man. The kind of lifestyle I enjoy costs money. More, I?m afraid, than I?m willing to go out and earn. When I first met you, I thought you might be the solution to my problem." ""You thought I was well-off?" ""No, dear. I thought you were loaded. Filthy rich." ""But why?" Astonished, she stared at him. "I never gave you reason to believe that." ""Not in so many words, perhaps. But there you were, on a first-name basis with half the bigwigs at that conference. Consulting with titans of industry dripping with old money. Naturally, I assumed you were somebody. So I made my move before anyone else got his foot in your door. You?re not all that bad-looking, you know, especially when you do yourself up, although I have to say that dress you?re wearing tonight makes you look a bit like a black widow spider. But I?ve come across a lot worse. Being married to you would have been tolerable, if only you hadn?t turned out not to be a member of society at all, but a corporate social convener working for someone else, for Pete?s sake!" "Charlotte didn?t often lose her temper but his scorn left her foaming with rage. "Not any longer, you arrogant stoat!" she spat, sorely tempted to wipe the smug expression off his face with the back of her hand. "Unlike you, I don?t mind working for a living ? and hard enough that I?m my own boss now and doing very well. But you...! You are, without question, the most despicable excuse for a man I?ve ever had the misfortune to come across. And to think I was taken in by you for even an instant!" ""Well, there you have it, dearie. I played you like a violin, and you bought every second of it. As I said before, you?re so hopelessly naive, it?s laughable." ""Not quite as naive as you?d like to think," she told him acidly. "At risk of denting your oversize ego, you should know that I?d already had second thoughts about continuing our association, long before your letter arrived. Unlike you, though, I prefer to be more direct, so I planned to tell you to your face when we met at Thanksgiving." "He laughed scornfully. "So you say! But if that?s the case, how come you?re making such an issue now of a situation that withered on the vine before it properly took root?" ""Because, you insensitive clod, thanks to you, I?ve been carrying around a load of guilt that was completely unnecessary! I soon realized that two weeks of fun in the sunny Caribbean wasn?t enough on which to base
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any sort of relationship, but I don?t enjoy letting people down and wasn?t looking forward to having to tell you I?d changed my mind, especially since you gave the impression you were totally besotted with me." ""Appearances can be deceiving, Charlie." ""With you, they certainly can! But I didn?t know that then, and I was ashamed of the relief I felt when I learned I wouldn?t have to hurt you. Ashamed at how soon I recovered from the shocking news of your 'death.'" ""That?s just your pride talking," he said imperturbably. "The truth is, you?re really eaten up with envy because I?ve found true love and you?re still looking for it. Which reminds me, Louella?s waiting. So if you?ve finished your inquisition...?" ""Heavens, yes!" She wiped a weary hand across her eyes. "Go. Please! Before the sight of you makes me sick!" "He complied with unflattering haste. She heard the French doors bang shut, followed within seconds from the other end of the balcony by the faint, expensive chime of cobweb-fine crystal. "Paolo?s hand swam into her line of vision, two slender flutes of the vintage Dom Perignon she?d recommended to the Duncans suspended between his lean, elegant fingers. "Another masterful performance, Charlotte. I suggest we celebrate with a glass of our host?s very excellent champagne." ""You listened in again?" Her stomach heaved unpleasantly. ""Certainly," he said, with a marked lack of remorse. "John Weatherby isn?t the kind of man who?s squeamish about how he goes about getting his own way. I wasn?t about to leave you to face him without proper backup if you needed it." ""I?m sure you meant well, but I already feel a big enough fool. I really don?t appreciate having everyone else believing it, too." ""I?m not 'everyone else,'" he said, tipping the rim of his glass lightly against hers. "And just for the record, you are no fool." "She grimaced. "No, I?m a black widow spider." "Just as he had in Barbados, he examined her at leisure, from the ankle-length black silk sheath John Weatherby had dismissed so callously to the upswept coil of her dark hair. "Spider, Charlotte?" he murmured, looping a finger beneath the small diamond pendant nesting just above her breasts. "I see only a woman whose natural beauty is enhanced by the classic simplicity of her gown." "At his touch, a tiny current of pleasure chased down her cleavage. Suddenly parched, she took a sip from the glass of champagne. "Thank you. I needed this." ""Because this last performance cost you so dearly?" ""Not at all. That was no 'performance' you witnessed, at least not on my part. I meant every word I said. If I seem upset, it?s merely because I?m embarrassed at how easily I was duped." ""You?ve nothing to be embarrassed about," he declared. "That?s Weatherby?s department. He?s a felon, guilty of arson and fraud, to say the least, and never mind his lesser crimes. So enjoy your champagne, Charlotte, stop looking so woebegone, and tell me what it?ll take to make you feel better." ""Showing him who?s really emerged the winner in this fiasco!" she told him grimly.
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"Something of her humiliation melted as Paolo bathed her once again in his dazzling smile. "Consider it done, cara. I already have it choreographed down to the last detail." Chapter Four "Oh, Charlotte was tempted to go along with him! But although Paolo?s sympathy was soothing, she barely knew him and if she hadn?t yet learned her lesson about throwing in her lot with a stranger, she deserved all the grief she?d undoubtedly reap. ""You?re very kind, Mr. Angelli, " she said, retreating to the far side of the nearest wrought-iron table, "but you?ve done enough. I really can?t allow you to become further involved in a mess entirely of my own making." ""I?m already involved, Charlotte," he said, that rich Demerara-sugar voice sliding over her name and turning into something at once sultry and exotic. Reaching across the table, he laced his fingers through hers. "You?re a woman of courage under fire, but that?s no reason to turn down my help." "It took considerable strength to withstand his coaxing words, never mind the gentle steel of his hold. But she wasn?t about to leap blindly from one bad situation to another. "Not until you tell me what you have in mind." ""Nothing disastrous. We?re simply going to rejoin the party." "She breathed a sigh, part relief and, if she were honest, part regret. Despite her common sense warning her to proceed carefully, the more daring voice in her heart urged her to toss caution to the breeze. Paolo Angelli had intrigued her from the first. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, she wanted to get to know him better and there was no use denying it. "Is that all?" ""Not quite," he said. "I came here alone, as did you, yes?" ""Yes." ""Well, things have changed. Now we?re a couple." ""The woman hired to put together the Duncans? elaborate coming-out party for their daughter being seen on the arm of one of their guests? Good heavens, Mr. Angelli, do you have any idea of the ripples that?s going to create?" ""I?m not a snob, Charlotte, and neither are you, so let?s not get carried away with that kind of nonsense. We?re a man and a woman powerfully attracted to one another, whether or not you?re ready to admit it. It?s as simple ? or as complicated ? as that. But I?m not a bully, so the choice is yours. You can put a brave face on things and go back inside to exercise a little vengeance by showing Weatherby he?s not the only one to have moved on, or you can remain out here. Either way, I?m staying with you." ""Why?" Truly baffled, she stared at him. He was unquestionably wealthy because she knew from what she?d seen in Barbados that he belonged to that select segment of society that she?d only glimpsed from the sidelines. If he wasn?t already spoken for, there must be at least a dozen women inside the clubhouse who?d be only too willing to rectify the matter; women who?d grown up in his kind of world, not hers. ""Because I prefer your company to anyone else?s here. Because I long ago grew tired of the sort of silly, superficial women strutting around in that room there." He stepped around the table and drew her close enough that she could smell the distant echo of his cologne and feel the heat of his body drifting out to entrap her. "Because I want to be seen with you." "How confident he was; how disturbingly attractive! Under different circumstances...oh, what was she thinking! "Mr. An?"
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""Paolo," He stroked her wrist, and then the palm of her hand in slow, tantalizing circles. "This is the 21st century, and Jane Austen?s been dead a very long time. Couples today don?t stand on foolish ceremony. They make their desires plainly known." "Well, he certainly did! If reducing her to melting acquiescence with his touch was his intention, he succeeded in a disgracefully short time. Her breathing raced as fast as her galloping pulse. As for 'caution,' it might just as well have been a foreign word past her understanding! ""Come with me, Charlotte," he cajoled. "Make this a memorable evening in more ways than one and teach that miserable wretch the lesson he deserves." ""Yes," she said, not because she cared one iota about John Weatherby, but because she couldn?t say no to Paolo Angelli. "He squeezed her hand, tipped her face up to his, and kissed her full on the mouth. Not aggressively. Not with arrogant intimacy, as if, because he?d come to her rescue, he had the right to take liberties. His lips were cool and dry, their touch firm but brief. Still the effect sent a delicious shock of electricity shooting through her blood. ""Just a little rehearsal before we go on stage," he said, lifting his head and smiling down at her. ""Um..." she mumbled, pressing her lips together to hold on to the taste of him. There?d been stars in the sky all evening long. When had they fallen down to blind her with their brilliance and addle her brain? When had she lost the power to articulate clearly and sanely? "He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and caught her fingers in his. "My feelings, exactly, cara," he said, leading her toward the balcony doors. "Some emotions defy the words and speak directly to the heart." Chapter Five "Now that the live music had started, the party had really come to life, making it possible for Charlotte and Paolo to slip into the crowd unnoticed. Without asking, he drew her into his arms and onto the dance floor. ""The Duncans might not like this," she muttered, glancing around nervously. "I?m here to work, after all." ""They will like," he assured her, "not only because Gerald Duncan is anxious to enlist my support in his latest venture and will do nothing to displease me, but because you?ve exceeded all their expectations and made this the perfect evening for their daughter." "Sensing she wasn?t entirely convinced, he again tipped up her chin. "Listen to me, cara. I?m no Weatherby. I don?t lie in order to win a woman?s heart." "She heard candor and integrity in his voice. It gave her the courage to ask, "Is that what you?re trying to do, Paolo? Win my heart?" "His hand slipped to the small of her back and urged her closer. "Most certainly." ""I?m not sure I?m ready to give it quite yet." ""I?m a patient man, Charlotte, and prepared to spend however long it takes to persuade you that my intentions are honorable." ""How can you be so sure, when we?ve only just met?" ""We met months ago and the spark ignited left a lasting impression." His voice dropped a captivating half octave. "That moment of recognition did not die, cara. It rekindled itself tonight."
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""Still," she said, struggling to step warily through the minefield of his persuasion, "we?re starting out afresh now." "He shrugged. "Of course. How else does a great romance start, but at the beginning?" "She sighed. "You make it all sound so reasonable, I half believe you. If it weren?t for the way John ?" "Unmindful of the fact that they were surrounded by others, he silenced her with another kiss, this one so darkly intoxicating that she quivered. "Hush," he said against her lips. "I?m nothing like him. Do you really think that, having let you slip through my fingers six months ago, I?m about to risk my carefully engineered second chance by telling you lies now?" ""Engineered?" Unnerved, she stared at him. "Are you saying you knew I?d be here and arranged this meeting? Is that what you meant when you said you had everything choreographed down to the last detail?" "He shrugged again, a continental lifting of one broad shoulder she wished she didn?t find so attractive. "Not exactly, but word travels quickly in my circle of acquaintances. I knew weeks ago that Gerald intended to hire you to organize this party, that my name would be on the guest list, and that the man who?d monopolized your time in Barbados had moved on to greener fields." ""Pastures," she said distractedly. "It?s 'moved on to greener pastures.'" ""Such a strange tongue, this English. I must teach you Italian, the true language of love." ""Now just hold your horses, Paolo ?!" "He interrupted with a laugh she could only compare to the slow trickle of warm molasses running from a hot spoon. "As I said, a strange language. But if horses are what it will take to win you, I?ll give you horses." "Clinging rather desperately to her dwindling sense of survival, she protested. "Stop talking like that! You could be married with eight children, for all I know. And I could have a husband ?" ""But you don?t," he said calmly. "You wouldn?t be here in my arms and allowing me to kiss you if you had. And anyone here can vouch that I have neither a wife nor children. However, if you prefer to hear it from my parents and sisters ?" ""I don?t know even your parents and sisters!" ""You will, cara. Very soon. I shall take you to our family villa overlooking the Adriatic Sea to meet them." ""I don?t think so! In your own way, you?re just as devious as John, pretending we met here by accident when, in fact, you?ve been stalking me from a distance for months." ""Keeping track, perhaps, but never stalking." ""Call it what you like, it adds up to the same thing." ""It was necessary for both our sakes," he said reasonably. "You needed time to establish yourself as an independent entrepreneur, and I needed assurance that you?d recovered from your brief infatuation with Weatherby before I declared myself." ""You?re very sure you?ll have things your way, aren?t you, Paolo Angelli? What are you going to do if I don?t fall in with your plans ? throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your cave?"
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""I?m no Neanderthal, Charlotte. If I?ve presumed too much, I apologize and will, of course, withdraw from the picture." "He paused, giving her time to consider before she framed a reply. The music slowed to a stop. Couples started drifting back to their tables. Finally she and Paolo were the only two left on the dance floor and still she hadn?t answered. She stared at the front of his dress shirt and tried to be sensible. To behave like a mature, intelligent woman. " ""Well, Charlotte? Have I misread the signs? Shall I thank you for the dance, escort you off the floor, and disappear from your life for good?" "She met his gaze. His eyes, blue as his Adriatic Sea, smoldered with fire. As for his mouth...oh, a woman could weave a lifetime of dreams around that mouth! "Everything?s happening too quickly, Paolo," she whimpered. "You?re asking for too much." ""I?m asking you to take a leap of faith," he said. "To join me on a journey that stands a very small chance of coming to nothing but is far more likely to lead to a future together. I won?t tell you I love you or that I want to marry you. Not yet. Not until I?m ready to say the words and you?re ready to hear them. But in the meantime I will court you, if you?ll let me, Charlotte. Is that so very much to ask?" "He pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel the hard, male angles of him pressed against her. Close enough that she could feel the beat of his heart beneath her hand. She knew a stirring in her blood, a sense of hovering on the brink of wonderful discovery. ""When you trust me enough, I will make love to you," he went on, his voice a seductive whisper in her ear. The promise alone was enough to cause a spasm of delight to uncurl within her and leave her moist with anticipation. "I will hold you in my arms throughout the night and cherish every moment we share. I will respect and honor you. And if, after all that, you decide I?m not the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, I will let you go. The question is, has that moment arrived already?" "The answer came to her not in a rush or a flood, but with a slow, tingling warmth that seeped along her veins with quiet deliberation and the promise that the best was yet to come. "No," she said. "I want to take that journey with you, Paolo. I believe in our tomorrow."
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BREAKING NEWS by Gina Wilkins Brilliant inventor Jason Morris has little time to invest in personal relationships. His dedication to his work often makes him thoughtless and distracted when it comes to the woman in his life — which is why no woman has ever stayed in his life for very long. So Jason is content to admire his dream woman — local newscaster Susan Landers — from afar, and to continue on with his work in solitude. That is, until she calls him to arrange for an interview... Susan Landers understands Jason's commitment to his work — she feels the same drive to excel in her own career. She doesn't take no for an answer, and is determined to land an exclusive interview with the elusive inventor. But once she gets to know him, she has to admit that her interest in him is far from just professional...
Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| CHAPTER ONE The relationship between Jason Morris and Susan Landers was easy to describe: He adored her, and she didn't know he existed. They'd been going along this way for some time now, and both were quite content with the status quo. At least, Jason was, and he assumed the same was true for Susan. She certainly looked happy enough every time he saw her. "You know, this fascination you have with that woman comes dangerously close to obsession," his best friend Randy Brady murmured one Friday evening as he watched Jason watch Susan. Unoffended, Jason stretched his long legs in front of him and lounged against the back of his favorite easy chair. He spoke without taking his gaze from the television screen. "I'm an eccentric inventor. We're supposed to be obsessive." "That's true, of course. But dropping everything to watch the six o'clock news every evening just to see Susan Landers reporting it — well, you don't think that's just a little strange?" Jason looked away from the commercial now blaring from the big-screen TV in his home media room. "What makes you think I'm not genuinely interested in the news?" "Oh, please. You couldn't care less what's happening in the real world outside this fortress of yours. And if you were, there are a couple dozen other channels you could watch for your daily updates." "Granted. But none of those other channels have Susan Landers." Randy chuckled. "You are such a geek." "Maybe. But I'm about to make you a very wealthy man." "And that," Randy assured him, "is why I like you so much." Because he didn't believe for a minute that his longtime buddy stayed around for financial reasons, Jason only smiled and looked back at the screen, where Susan Landers was now talking about a promising development in AIDS research. Damn, but she was pretty, he thought, admiring the way her big brown eyes glittered in the bright lights of the news set. Her black hair was expertly cut so that it fell with apparent carelessness to frame her perfectly oval face. Her nose was short and straight, her cheekbones delicately defined, her full, soft mouth a work of art. Her chin was firm enough to indicate a stubborn, tenacious personality, but the shallow dent in the center softened it just enough to be endearing.
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As much as he admired her competence as a reporter, he had to admit it was mostly the way she looked that kept him tuning in every evening. Maybe that made him shallow — but he suspected it just made him male. Just because he had an off-the-chart IQ, a half-dozen advanced degrees, and a knack for inventing things that were often referred to as "revolutionary," it didn't mean he wasn't a normal, red-blooded 33-yearold guy. His equally red-blooded investor and friend since junior high sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll leave you and Susan alone now. I'm starting to feel like a fifth wheel." "No need to leave yet," Jason murmured, watching as Susan reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. "Stay until the news is over and we'll order a pizza or something." Randy snorted. "Unlike you, I have a hankering for flesh-and-blood women who actually know my name in return. I have a date tonight with a prime example of such a woman. Her name is Tiffany — she's bright, beautiful, and very available. She probably has some equally interesting single friends, if you want me to set something up for next weekend." "Thanks, but not right now. I'm too busy for the hassle of a blind date." "So when's the last time you had any kind of date, hmm?" He tried to remember. "A few weeks ago. New Year's Eve, I think." "Yo, Jason. It's April, dude. New Year's Eve was four months ago." Had it really been so long? Jason shook his head. Time had a way of slipping past him when he was immersed in an exciting project. That probably explained why he'd been having some very disturbing dreams lately. He was half-embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that Susan Landers had featured rather prominently in several of those dreams. As far as he was concerned, she was the perfect woman — pretty, interesting, and in no danger of interfering with the haphazard schedules and unpredictable work hours he preferred to keep. Unlike other women who'd come into his life so sweetly and so eagerly and had all left rather quickly in affronted huffs. Hell, maybe he was getting weird, even for an eccentric inventor! He was in his workshop an hour later when his telephone rang. He usually let the machine pick up all his calls, preferring to dial back the rare caller he actually wanted to speak to at a time of his choosing. Maybe because he was a bit restless this evening, he picked up the cordless extension and barked into it, "H'lo." After a momentary pause, a slightly husky woman's voice responded. "May I speak with Dr. Jason Morris, please?" "Not if you're a telemarketer," he growled. He was all for earning an honest living, but there were some things he simply couldn't tolerate. "I'm not a telemarketer. Are you Jason Morris?" "Yes. Who are you?" If his brusque manner perturbed her, she didn't give any sign of it when she replied smoothly, "My name is Susan Landers. I'm a reporter for —" He couldn't help it. He laughed. He should probably be teed off, but he could take a good joke as well as the next guy. "Of course you are," he interrupted her to drawl. "And I'm Sir Paul McCartney. Wanna hear me sing?"
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This time the pause on the other end of the line was a bit longer. "Very amusing. The reason I called —" "I know why you called." Because the wicked cleverness of the stunt amused him, he spoke indulgently. "You can tell Randy I wasn't fooled for a minute, but I do appreciate his effort." "Dr. Morris, I assure you —" Okay, enough was enough. "Look — Tiffany, isn't it? I'm a busy man. The joke was funny, but it's over now. Tell Randy I'll call him tomorrow — and that I will find a way to pay him back." He could hear her sputtering when he disconnected the call. Had to give Randy's friend credit, he mused with a wry smile. She was certainly determined to play out her part in the gag. The phone rang again, but this time he let the machine pick up. "Dr. Morris? This is Susan Landers. I'd like to talk to you about an interview for television. If you could call me back at your convenience, my number is —" He didn't bother to listen to the digits she reeled off. He'd bet if he dialed them, he'd find himself connected to one of those phone sex lines. Sounded just like something his old pal would find funny. He was definitely going to have to find a way to pay Randy back for this, he told himself with a low laugh. *** Susan Landers stared in frustration at the telephone receiver in her hand. And then she slammed it home hard enough to make it jingle. She'd been prepared for Jason Morris to be rather odd — geniuses often were, and this man's eccentric reputation had preceded him — but that was one of the most bizarre conversations she'd engaged in lately. She wanted this interview. And Susan usually found a way to get what she wanted. "Jason Morris," she murmured, tapping one coral-nailed fingertip on the phone. "Prepare to meet your match." CHAPTER TWO Susan had read every article she'd found about Dr. Jason Morris — not that many had been written about the reclusive inventor — but had learned little more than that he was brilliant and unconventional and that he lived in what amounted to a walled-in compound to protect his work. Two days after he'd hung up in her ear, she stood outside his massive iron gate and studied the security camera peering back at her. It was a dark, cloudy, windy afternoon and she suspected an ugly storm was going to break any minute. She pushed the red button beneath the camera, hoping she hadn't made this drive in vain. A moment later, a man's voice growled, "What?" "Dr. Morris?" "I'm busy. If it's a delivery —" "I'm Susan Landers, and I'd like to talk to you about an interview. I tried to call —" "Damn," the man interrupted in exasperation. "Randy's going to stretch this as far as he can, isn't he?" "I don't know who Randy is, but I —"
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"Yeah, yeah. You're Susan Landers." Since he still sounded disbelieving, she glared straight at the camera. "Mr. Morris, have you ever seen me on the news?" "I might have seen Susan Landers once or twice," he admitted cautiously. "Well? I assume you're seeing me on a security monitor." "The monitor's in another part of the house. I'm rarely interested in what my callers look like." The guy was certifiably nuts. Brilliant, but nuts. "Couldn't you just —" "If you're really Susan Landers, what were you wearing during your newscast last night?" Baffled, she tried to remember. Clothes weren't that important to her; she had someone who helped her put together professional-looking ensembles because it was part of the job. "A red suit. I hate that jacket," she added. "It's too short in the sleeves, and I —" "You tug at the cuffs," he said. "You really are Susan Landers?" "I really am. Now could we —?" The iron gates swung apart with well-oiled efficiency. "Come in," he said. "I'll meet you at the front door." This, she thought, must be the way Alice had felt just before she stepped through the looking glass. She had a feeling she was in for quite an experience on the other side. *** Jason watched through a lead glass window as a bronze sports car came to a stop at the foot of the marble stairs that led up to his front door. He still wouldn't be surprised if Randy emerged with a Susan Landers look-alike and a big, stupid grin. But only one person slid out of the low car, and it most definitely was not Randy. He swallowed hard as he watched the nicely curved brunette march up the steps, her dark hair wind-tossed around a face he recognized instantly. Hell, he thought with a wince of chagrin. It really was Susan Landers. He had the door open before she reached it. Because he felt awkward and a bit flustered by her unexpected arrival — not to mention stunned that the woman he'd been lusting after for months was actually standing less than an arm's length away from him — he spoke more gruffly than he'd intended. "Why are you here?" She had been looking at him with an expression of surprise he didn't quite understand. In response to his question, he had the odd feeling that he could almost hear her teeth grind together. "I did try to call you. Several times." He'd rather not think about that first call just now. "What do you want?" More than once it had been suggested that he lacked basic social skills. He preferred to believe that he simply saved time and energy by forgoing useless ritual niceties. Some people took offense at his manners — or lack of them — while others tended to respond in kind. Susan belonged to the latter group. Planting her hands on her hips, she met his scowl squarely. "Are you going to invite me inside, or must we conduct this conversation with me standing on your doorstep in the rain?"
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He moved out of her way. As she entered, she glanced around the large, airy, marble-and-glass entryway with its big curving staircase before turning to face him. "Nice." He tried to keep his gaze focused on her face, instead of the very nice rest of her. "Thanks. I guess I should ask you in to sit down or something." Her expression was impossible to read when she nodded. "Thank you." He wondered where he should take her. For some reason, his first thought was the media room — but since that was upstairs, he led her into a more formal, little-used sitting room instead. He motioned toward one of the wingback chairs that flanked the antique sofa. "Can I get you anything?" "No, thank you. Do you have a staff for this big place?" "I had a longtime housekeeper, but she retired last year. Since then I've had several, but they keep quitting — the latest a couple weeks ago." And a dramatic exit it had been, too. Yelling at the top of her lungs, she had quit without notice. Jason considered himself fluent in Spanish and five other languages, but she'd thrown words at him he'd never heard before. He still didn't quite understand what had set her off. The explosion hadn't been all that big, and he'd offered to help her clean the workshop. "Dr. Morris —" "Jason," he interrupted. "Jason," she continued. "I apologize for showing up uninvited on your doorstep. That's not the way I prefer to do business, but I couldn't connect with you by phone, and you never replied to the letter I sent last week." He shifted his weight on the pretty but uncomfortable sofa. "I haven't looked at my mail in a couple of weeks. Your letter's probably in a stack on my desk. As for the phone calls — well, I didn't believe you were really you. I have this buddy, see, with a weird sense of humor and I thought he'd — anyway, that doesn't matter. So you want —?" "I'd like to set up an on-camera interview, at your convenience, of course." He hated doing interviews, especially when cameras were involved. "I don't —" She broke in to add, "I thought I could spend a couple of days with you, if that wouldn't be too bothersome. Give the viewers a glimpse into the life of a prominent inventor. It would be quite inspirational for young students considering careers in science and technology." Though he always tried to encourage young people to pursue such studies, it wasn't that argument that appealed to him most. He was more tempted by the chance to spend a couple of days with the woman who had fascinated him since the first time he accidentally spotted her on television, talking about a chemical spill or some such event, the details of which he had missed because he'd been too busy staring at her mouth. Maybe an interview wouldn't be so bad, he tried to convince himself. Especially if it would encourage promising young scientists. Of course, there were things he would not discuss with her — or any reporter, until he was ready to go public with his newest invention. He would say that he preferred not to speak of ongoing projects, but he'd be happy to talk about his past work. No problem, right? "I suppose we could arrange something —" "Great." Susan spoke quickly, as if she didn't want to give him a chance to change his mind. She had that tenacious-reporter gleam in her eyes that he recognized from her TV reports. "I have a lot of questions to ask you — especially about the inventions you're working on now."
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He scowled and called himself an idiot. This, he thought, was what he deserved for letting hormones overcome his common sense. A couple of days with Susan Landers could only lead to trouble — in many ways. So why wasn't he sending her away? CHAPTER THREE Jason Morris wasn't at all what Susan had expected. The few photographs she'd seen hadn't been very good. With his curly dark hair, silvery-gray eyes, cleanly chiseled features, and athletically toned body, he was no one's idea of a nerdy scientist. Her first glimpse of him had rendered her almost speechless. His behavior since had almost prompted her to say things that wouldn't at all advance her cause of getting an exclusive interview with him. Instant lust wasn't something that happened to her very often. She certainly hadn't expected to feel it with this eccentric and somewhat abrasive inventor. But she couldn't help indulging in a few impromptu fantasies about just how creative those talented hands of his might be.… He started to speak, but thunder drowned him out. He glanced at the windows, drawing her attention to the rain that was starting to pound harder against the glass. "You picked a nice day for a drive in the country," he said wryly. "It was the only time I had available — since you wouldn't respond to mail or telephone," she couldn't resist adding. He didn't even have the grace to look apologetic. "This interview — when would you want to do it?" She tried not to focus on the probably unintentional double entendre, though it wasn't easy. When would she like to do it? "As I said — at your convenience." "I could probably give you a couple hours sometime during the next few weeks. There is one condition." "Which is?" "I won't answer any questions about projects that haven't already been made public." She frowned a little. "I understand you're about to unveil a new invention that will be truly revolutionary in the world of technology. Naturally, I'd like to ask —" He stiffened abruptly. "Where did you hear that?" She had no intention of telling him about the anonymous note she'd received — not yet, anyway. Especially since she didn't have a clue who'd sent it. She worded her answer carefully. "I know your past inventions were hailed as groundbreaking in personal electronics such as smart-phones and personal data assistants. I assume whatever you're working on now is equally important." The way he had reacted to her seemingly innocuous comment was even more telling. Her reporter's instincts told her that whatever he was working on now must be major. "I would be happy to discuss my past contributions to technology. But I will not talk about any ongoing projects," he repeated flatly. "How soon —" She waited until another crash of thunder subsided, then tried again. "How soon are you planning to unveil your next invention?" "When it's ready."
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Jason's reluctance just made Susan feel more certain than ever that a big story was waiting to be uncovered here. If she could break the news about Jason Morris's latest invention, her career future could be set. Because she had dealt with difficult interview subjects before, she said simply, "I certainly wouldn't expect you to answer questions that make you uncomfortable." Her words seemed to reassure him a little. Which wouldn't have been true, of course, if he'd known she had a talent for making people feel comfortable — even as they replied to questions they had not intended to answer. Lightning slashed the skies outside, accompanied simultaneously by a clap of thunder so loud it left Susan's ears ringing. The lights flickered; she glanced around uncomfortably. "I have an alternate power source if the electricity goes out," Jason assured her. Because the thought of being in the dark with this intriguing man was too appealing, she smoothed her hands down her black-and-sapphire pantsuit and stood. "I'd better go before the storm gets worse. Perhaps we can make further arrangements by telephone?" Jason had moved to the window, peering out through the open draperies. "You can't drive in this. You couldn't see the front of your car, much less anything beyond it. You'd better wait until the storm passes." Even more aware now of being alone in this secluded fortress with a man whose attractive exterior didn't quite conceal his eccentric personality, she shook her head. "I grew up in Dallas. I'm very familiar with spring storms." "Then you know how dangerous they can be. And since this house is 30 miles outside of Dallas, you'd be foolish to strike out until this one's over. What time is it?" She noted that he didn't wear a watch. His muscular arms were bare beneath the short sleeves of the gray T-shirt he wore with faded jeans and white sneakers. Strong arms, she mused. The kind that could easily pick a woman up and carry her up a flight of stairs. "It's five o'clock," she said, annoyed with herself for being so easily distracted by Jason Morris's good looks. "No wonder I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast. I forget to eat when I'm working." Which explained how he stayed so slim, she thought even as she said casually, "I guess it's easy to get lost in an exciting new project like the one you're working on now." He started to speak, then gave her a look and turned toward the door. "Let's find some food." Preparing herself for the Mad Hatter's tea party, she followed him out of the sitting room. Maybe she should leave despite the storm, she thought, listening to the wind, rain, and thunder. But this seemed like a good opportunity to get some background information on Jason Morris — and maybe to win his trust and convince him that she deserved the exclusive interview about his newest invention. Besides, she thought with a touch of surprise, she didn't want to leave just yet. She tried to convince herself that her interest in him was purely professional — but she was all too aware that there was more to it than that. *** They ate ham and cheese sandwiches in his kitchen. Fortunately, the kitchen was relatively neat, since Jason didn't spend much time there, and even less time actually cooking. Though he was hungry, he hardly tasted the food. He kept getting distracted by the sight of Susan Landers actually sitting in his home, eating from one of his paper plates. He'd thought she was attractive on TV; he saw now that the camera didn't really do her justice. She was gorgeous — and just watching her eat made him sweat.
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He was going to have to be very careful that his attraction to her didn't make him stupidly inattentive when he answered her questions. He had no intention of blurting out facts he wasn't ready for the world to know just yet — no matter what enticements Ms. Landers employed to get him to do so. For a weather report, they turned on the tiny TV he kept in the kitchen. Both were surprised to discover they were under a severe thunderstorm warning, and that threatening weather was cropping up all around them. "I don't suppose you're inventing a better method of predicting the weather," Susan said, scowling at the suave meteorologist expounding on-screen. "This morning they just said there was a chance of rain. Nothing about severe weather." "Never believe anything you hear on TV." She frowned. "I think I resent that." Looking away from the screen, he smiled. Though he was going to have to be on his toes around this woman, he intended to enjoy the time he spent with her before the fantasy ended. "There's no way I'm letting you leave just yet." CHAPTER FOUR "You're safe here," Jason said when Susan raised an eyebrow in response to his somewhat arrogant invitation for her to stay a while longer. "From the storm and from me. No matter how beautiful you are, I'm not in the habit of making passes at women without invitation." Had there been a compliment buried in that awkward attempt at reassurance? "I wasn't worried about being here with you. Your peers consider you brilliant, impatient, often rude and thoughtless, but they have the highest respect for your character." She'd figured out early that Jason preferred frank speaking. And his smile, she discovered with a hollow feeling in her stomach, was lethal. "I'll take most of that as a compliment," he murmured. Okay, she still thought him odd — but cute, too. Probably knew it. "I suppose we could make good use of the time if I must stay a bit longer. If you don't object, of course." The gleam in his eyes turned wicked. "That depends on what you have in mind." It wasn't quite a pass, she decided. "I thought," she said repressively, "we could talk about the interview. Get some preliminary questions out of the way, find an angle for the story." "Oh." He made a show of looking disappointed before nodding. "We'll move to a room where we can be more comfortable. I'll answer only the questions I want to." "Fair enough." He led her back to the foyer. She hesitated when he started up the soaring staircase, then tagged after him. Her work had taken her into much more intimidating places than an inventor's luxurious home. Up this staircase — or down a rabbit hole — she could certainly handle this interview. She fully intended to be satisfied with its outcome. Noting details of the impeccably, and professionally, decorated house, she followed him into a room that was a bachelor's dream. A home theater with a large-screen TV and surround-sound system, deepcushioned furniture, video games, billiards table, and a kitchenette with minifridge and microwave were among the amenities. "Spend a lot of time here?" He shrugged and moved toward the kitchenette. "When I'm not in my workshops. Want some coffee?"
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"Sure. Will you give me a tour of your workshops?" "No." He switched on the coffeemaker. "Mugs and sweetener are in that cabinet, creamer in the fridge. Make yourself comfortable. I have to check on a few things downstairs. And it's a good thing you aren't one of those sneaky, unprincipled reporters who would try to follow me down and snoop into my work." "I wouldn't dream of it." Her haughty tone made him grin — which made her knees go momentarily slack, to her secret chagrin. "I thought so." He was gone nearly twenty minutes. She spent that time sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, making notes, and watching the severe weather creep closer on the big-screen TV. At least the storm gave her a chance to get to know Jason on a one-on-one basis. Surely she could ferret out some clue about his new invention. He entered the room with a satisfied expression that made her ask, "Things going well in your work?" "Well enough." "What is it you're working on again?" Her only reward was another of his flashing grins — which was almost enough. "Nice try." He poured a cup of coffee, then sat beside her on the couch and nodded toward her notepad. "Writing nice things about me?" "So far. Ready to begin?" "If I can ask you a question for each one you ask me." "That isn't the way interviews are usually conducted." "Maybe you've noticed I don't do things the 'usual' way." "I've noticed." She'd also noticed that he sat rather close to her. Not touching, and in no way threatening. More…cozy. The way friends sat, rather than strangers. Why, she wondered, was she having trouble remembering that they were strangers? And why was she so tempted to move even closer? Concentrating fiercely on work, she began, "I've read that you grew up in Houston, the only child of parents who are both scientists. You're 33, never married, and have two Ph.D.s." "Three. You said you grew up in Dallas. Siblings?" "Two brothers. Did you always plan to become an inventor?" "Actually, I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, but I can't tell a joke without blowing the punch line. How old are you?" "Twenty-eight." "Ever married?" "No." She frowned. "Wait, it's my turn. What do you consider the greatest achievement of your career to this point?"
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"I haven't blown myself up yet. Exactly. Has anyone ever mentioned that you have spectacular brown eyes?" "That," she said, "was an uninvited pass. And you aren't cooperating." "I've answered every question. And it wasn't a pass. Merely a fact." "You aren't taking me seriously." "I've always taken you very seriously," he assured her. Always? Because she wasn't sure what he meant by that, she asked, "Will you please answer my questions honestly?" "For you — anything," he said. Then added with a chuckle, "Well, almost." She supposed that would have to do. For now. He arrogantly believed everything was going to be on his terms. She intended to prove him wrong. Jason cooperated with the rest of her preliminary interview, though he passed on almost as many questions as he answered. Anything that even remotely touched on his current work was off-limits, although he talked cheerfully enough about his past work. "I can find all this information in the few articles that have been written about you," she complained finally. He shrugged. "So ask something original." She ground her teeth until her jaw popped. "I've asked several original questions. You've refused to answer them." "I'm not discussing my current work with you, Susan. I'm not ready. There are patent issues, and then the rumors that get started when word gets out a new invention is in the wings. Everyone starts making wild guesses, reporters start poking around —" She lifted an eyebrow. "— and my privacy gets all shot to hell," he concluded. "Once people start blowing predictions all out of proportion, they're actually disappointed when they discover the new product isn't a guarantee of immortality or some such miracle." "But you do have one extremely important invention you'll be unveiling soon, don't you? Something that's going to make significant changes in the world?" "I don't know where you got that tip, but you probably wasted your time coming here today. If my conditions don't interest you, you're free to change your mind about the interview." "I don't want to change my mind," she said — and discovered that it was true. She wasn't ready to give up on this guy — for an interview, of course, she added quickly. "What do you suggest now?" "Spend the day with me tomorrow." "Um — tomorrow?" He nodded. "I'll pick you up. If you discover at the end of the day that I'm not all that interesting, we'll shake hands and go back to being strangers. If you still want an interview, I'm all yours."
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All hers. Unfortunately, she liked the sound of that a bit too much. She nodded slowly. "All right. You're on." CHAPTER FIVE Susan tried to keep in mind Sunday that being with Jason was supposed to be work. She did learn a lot about him — though very little of it had anything to do with his projects. He took her to the zoo. She should have expected something like that. Fortunately, she'd dressed casually in khakis and a camp shirt; Jason wore jeans and a T-shirt again, apparently his favorite ensemble. The orangutans in their grassy compound held his ever-shifting attention longest. "They're inventors, did you know that? They've been known to be quite creative in using whatever is at hand to help them find food, shelter, and entertainment." "So you identify with the monkeys? Living behind walls, thinking up ways to make life easier while spectators watch for your next clever move?" He lifted an eyebrow at her, then took her hand and turned away. "Orangutans aren't monkeys — they're apes." Allowing him to lead her to the next exhibit, and very aware of the feel of her hand in his, she noted that he hadn't responded to her impulsively whimsical question. Did he feel pressured to produce the Next Big Thing? Was it hard being so young and already having so many impressive accomplishments behind him? She had asked those questions the day before, but he'd blown them off. And she found herself getting much too easily distracted by her pleasure in being with him, learning what made this fascinating man tick. It seemed much more like a first date than an interview. He talked about his favorite pastimes — swimming and racquetball. He had a lap pool and racquetball court at his house, so he really didn't have to leave very often. Everything he needed within four walls, she thought with a glance back at the orangutan exhibit. He learned more about her over cheeseburgers in Dallas's West End. She told him that she loved mysteries, Celtic music, and power-walking to stay in shape. They both liked action movies, disliked weepy period sagas, and sometimes needed to get away to places where no one knew who they were. Several times, Susan was greeted by people who watched her newscasts. Others stared at her in puzzlement, trying to remember where they had seen her before. She was polite, of course — good P.R. was an important part of her job — but the attention was intrusive at times. "At least my face isn't as well-known as yours," Jason remarked after a trio of women stopped by their table to shower Susan with compliments about her work. "Now you see why I'm hesitant to do interviews." "Does it bother you when people approach me that way? I've been out with guys who find it very annoying — not that this is a date, of course," she added, feeling suddenly foolish. He flashed a quick smile that made her cheeks warm, then replied, "It certainly isn't something I could take very often. I'm tempted to ask these people if we look like we want company, but I'm trying to keep quiet because I assume you'd be embarrassed." She supposed she should be pleased he was making an effort for her sake — not that she would have been as embarrassed as he seemed to believe. At an arcade next door to the burger joint, she learned a bit more about his work. He talked about his habit of looking at all things mechanical and instinctively thinking of ways to make them more efficient. She heard how he'd started taking apart his mother's kitchen appliances when he was only six, learning how they worked, wondering how they could be improved.
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When he stood close behind her to guide her hands on a video game he had designed, she nearly hyperventilated. She was no longer even pretending that being with him had anything to do with her work. She wouldn't exactly call him a charming companion. He was gruff, blunt-spoken and impatient. She found his frank honesty refreshing, being more accustomed to the smiling phoniness of many of her business associates. Jason certainly couldn't be described as phony, or vain, or insincere. Actually, she couldn't think of any succinct words to describe him — not a good thing for a reporter, of course. They were wandering through a southwestern art gallery when he asked, "Is your job the reason you're still single and unattached?" "Not entirely. I haven't yet met anyone I wanted to attach myself to." She stroked the side of a beautiful little clay pot and asked, "What about you?" Staring intently at a painting of moon-silhouetted wild horses, he shrugged. "Not many women have the patience to put up with me. I forget birthdays and holidays — and dinner dates, occasionally. I forget to give gifts and compliments. I get lost in my work for days and don't answer the door or the phone. Don't want to be interrupted by friends, family, or anyone else." She turned reluctantly away from the little pot, telling herself they shouldn't be talking about his love life — even though she found it all too interesting. "We still haven't discussed your last invention. An improved antenna for cell phones, isn't it? When will it be available to the general public?" "Within the next few months." Following her lead, he talked about the new technology even as he picked up the little pot, paid for it, and had it safely wrapped. He pressed the package into her hands as they left the store. "You seemed to like this." It was such a sweet and uncharacteristic thing for him to do that it caught her off-guard. Blushing like a schoolgirl, she smiled at him. "Thank you." "You're welcome," he said simply, smiling back at her warmly. *** At the end of the day, Susan had to admit to herself that Jason Morris fascinated her — as a reporter, and as a woman. When he took her back home, she invited him in for coffee — to further discuss their interview, she added, though she doubted the obvious excuse fooled him for a minute. He followed her into her little-used kitchen and watched as she prepared the coffee. Very aware of him standing so close in the small room, she asked, "Without going into detail, couldn't you at least tell me how you would classify your new project? Does it involve computers? Communications? Entertainment? Some other area?" "No." "No, none of the above?" "No, I'm not going to talk about it. Is that really the only reason you spent the day with me? To try to get me to tell you more than I want to?" She turned away from the coffeemaker. "I've said from the start that I want an exclusive about your new project." "And I've said you aren't getting one. Not until I'm ready. So — you ready to shake hands and call the whole thing off?"
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She should say yes, of course. Without the new project, there was no story. But without a story, there was really no reason to spend any more time with Jason. His eyes holding hers, Jason took a step closer. "It's your move, Susan," he said, his voice suddenly husky. "What do you want to do now?" CHAPTER SIX Susan decided the interview was still on. Even without the unveiling of his latest invention, there was still the coup of taping an interview with an influential and habitually reclusive inventor. At least, that was what she told Jason — and tried to believe, herself. Of course, a personality piece required more setup. She needed to know him better before she could represent him accurately to an audience. Jason agreed, and suggested they spend the next Saturday together, since both were busy with work during the week. And since they wasted that Saturday picnicking at a park and flying a kite he'd designed instead of discussing the interview, they decided they'd better spend the following weekend together, as well. It seemed entirely natural when he kissed her goodbye that evening — a kiss that nearly melted her sandals, confirming her suspicion that his talents included much more than technology. She was tempted to invite him in, but she forced herself to send him away. She needed a bit more time to decide exactly what was happening between them, she told herself. Though neither Susan nor Jason spent much time on nonwork-related telephone calls, they spoke nearly every day that week. At first, there was always a pretext for the calls — something she'd thought to ask him, or a comment he wanted to make about her latest news report. Eventually, they stopped pretending the calls were about anything other than hearing each other's voices. And they made no further effort to talk about work — their conversations were strictly personal, and increasingly intimate. Susan felt like a giddy schoolgirl — pouncing sheepishly on the phone when it rang, waiting impatiently beside it when it didn't. How unlike her — and yet it was nice to feel that way again. She assured herself her work wasn't affected by this heavy crush she seemed to have developed, but several of her acquaintances commented that there was something different about her — had she changed her hair? Was she experimenting with new makeup? Was that why her eyes suddenly seemed brighter? *** Three Saturdays after their first meeting, Jason opened his door for her. "Hi," he said, drawing her inside. "Hi," she replied, studying the face that had haunted her since she'd met him. He touched a hand to her jaw. "Remember that agreement we had about uninvited passes?" She was unable to resist rubbing her cheek against his fingertips. "I remember." "How about an invitation?" She slid her arms around his neck, wondering at her own uncharacteristic behavior. "Will this do?" "Oh, yeah," he growled, and crushed her mouth beneath his. One kiss led to another — and then another. A first step led to the bottom of the stairs, and then swept them up to his bedroom. They had been building toward this from the beginning, she realized in wonder. The time they had spent together, the smiles and touches, the long phone conversations. Their mutual delight at finding they had so much in common.
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"I feel as though I've known you so much longer than a few short weeks," Susan murmured, her breathless words seeming to echo in his huge bedroom. Jason spoke against the pounding hollow of her throat, his clever hands busy exploring the rest of her. "I'd say you've gotten to know me pretty well in a few weeks. Better than some people who've known me for years." Even as she burrowed her hands beneath his T-shirt to stroke his athlete's body, she tried to retain some sanity. "It's probably too soon for this. Maybe we should wait." Since she was tugging at his shirt as she spoke, he didn't seem to take her too seriously. "We could wait," he agreed, lowering his mouth to the soft skin revealed when he unbuttoned her shirt. "Wanna stop and take this up again in a couple more weeks?" She sighed when he nuzzled aside her bra and took her in his mouth. "I wouldn't have gotten where I am if I believed in wasting time," she decided aloud. He chuckled. "Same here." And then he tumbled her onto his bed. Someone had asked Susan recently if she believed in love at first sight. As she fell deeper into Jason's kisses, she had a feeling her answer might be different if she were asked the same question today. Who would have believed, she asked herself, burying her hands in his thick, curly, dark hair, that a simple anonymous tip would have changed her whole life? Jason proved to be as inventive in the bedroom as he was in a workshop. He had little talent for pretty words, but she had no doubt the words he spoke were sincere. He told her how attractive she was, how much he enjoyed being with her, how pleased he was that she understood him well enough to be attracted to him, too. And he touched her — both physically and emotionally — in ways that made her realize she would never be satisfied with "ordinary" again. By the time he dug into his nightstand drawer to provide protection, she no longer had any doubts about the wisdom of their actions. She'd never fallen so hard or so fast for anyone. Why should they waste any of the time they had together? Jason cupped her face between his hands and gave her a smile that turned her heart inside out. "You're as special as I always knew you would be," he murmured. "Beautiful, yes. But also clever and interesting and honest. You don't play the usual games — and you don't seem to mind that I don't make time for them myself." She tangled her bare legs with his and reached up to stroke the firm line of his jaw. "Trust me, I get enough meaningless games in my work. I've always preferred honesty." They communicated then with kisses, sighs, and gasps, with incoherent murmurs and lingering touches. Jason's words might be blunt, but his lovemaking was pure poetry, Susan thought as he thrust smoothly into her, stealing her breath and her heart at the same time. "Jason?" she asked much later, her cheek cradled on his shoulder. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. "Mm?" he asked, proving he wasn't quite asleep. "What did you mean when you said I was as special as you always thought I would be?"
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Without opening his eyes, he chuckled huskily. "I meant what I said. I've been watching you on TV for months." That made her frown. "You have?" "Mm. That's why I didn't believe it was you when you called. I thought my friend Randy had put someone up to impersonating you, because he knew I had a thing for you." Her frown deepened. "I'm not just a nice face on a big screen, you know." His eyes opened then, their expression suddenly stern. "And I'm no star-struck fan. Don't trivialize this, Susan." She tried to find reassurance in his words. Of course he wasn't star-struck. Why should he be? He was the one with all the degrees, the international patents, the mega-dollars, and the awed admiration of the technological community. Hardly the type of man who would be overly impressed by a local television reporter. Right? For the first time in years, she was more excited and optimistic about her personal life than her career. It was thrilling — and terrifying. She'd never let herself care enough to have her heart broken, yet something told her that Jason could shatter it, if she didn't take a few precautions. Which, considering their current position, was a rather ironic thought, she mused, even as he turned to take her in his arms again. CHAPTER SEVEN Susan had always considered herself a difficult dating prospect, but she was downright easy compared to Jason. As he had warned, he was sometimes thoughtless and forgetful. But at least he didn't mind when her career obligations interfered with their plans, since he was as much a compulsive workaholic as she was. He didn't talk about his work, but seemed fascinated by hers. She invited him to the station one evening for a tour before she went on air. He watched as she prepared for the broadcast, then finagled his way into the control booth. She had to almost drag him away; he'd been lost in conversation with the technicians, listening with interest to their discussion of broadcasting equipment and how it could be improved. "And you told me you aren't a schmoozer," she chided him later, when they were snuggled in her bed. His eyebrows rose. "A schmoozer?" "Someone who charms his way into getting what he wants. You worked my coworkers like a practiced politician so you could learn all their technical secrets." He grinned. "Nice people. Cool toys. I had a good time." "I'm glad." Quite pleased with herself, she leaned over to kiss his smile. *** They had been lovers for more than a month before she met his best friend, Randy Brady, at a Dallas restaurant. She suspected the meeting was Randy's idea. She wasn't sure why Jason was so hesitant to introduce her to his friends, but she reminded herself that he did things at his own speed. "Look at the two of you," the likable patent attorney said, smiling from Jason to Susan. "You make a lovely couple."
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"Knock it off," Jason growled, stabbing a fork into his steak. Randy chuckled and spoke to Susan. "Don't know how you put up with him. Jason has the personality of an old dog — just as likely to snap at you as to wag his tail." Jason grumbled, but Susan only laughed. "He has his own charms." Randy grinned. "I know that. It's just rare that anyone else digs deep enough to find them." "Yes, well, I'm aware my so-called charms quickly lose their novelty," Jason muttered. "So could we just enjoy the rest of our dinner, please?" Randy obligingly changed the subject, but Susan pondered Jason's words. Was he implying that he expected her to lose interest and move on? If so, he wasn't showing much confidence in her — or in their feelings for each other. Or were his feelings as strong as hers? He'd never said, of course, but she'd attributed that to his habitual awkwardness at expressing emotions. Maybe she should have probed deeper. It would be nice to know how he defined this impetuous affair, and what he wanted for their future. Randy kissed Susan's cheek when they parted in the parking lot. "I knew you and Jason would be great together." Thinking of the anonymous tip that had brought them together, Susan frowned, but Randy only winked at her and took his leave. "The guy's strange, but he's been a good friend," Jason said as they belted themselves into his car. "I like him." "Maybe we'll do something with him again sometime." Maybe? Randy was Jason's best friend. If she and Jason were to remain together, of course she would be seeing Randy. Just as she expected Jason to mingle with her friends on occasion. He started the car, then turned to pull her toward him for a kiss that nearly singed her eyelashes. "Your place or mine?" Her smile trembled. "Mine's closer." He put the car into gear. Pushing her doubts to the back of her mind, Susan ordered herself again to stop overanalyzing him. *** Susan was out of town on assignment the next week. She spoke with Jason a couple of times, but he seemed distracted — probably by his work. Somehow the interview seemed to have fallen by the wayside — and she suspected he was the one who'd made sure it did so. He'd never been enthusiastic about it. And since she still didn't have a clue what he was working on, she still had no lead angle. As arranged, she drove to his place after arriving back in Dallas. He met her at the front door, and he wasn't at all distracted when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her as though it had been weeks rather than days since they'd last been together. She was convinced she had his full attention when he took her to his bed and made love with her until they were both incapable of coherent thought.
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A long time afterward, they sat at his kitchen table, munching the fried chicken his new housekeeper had left in the fridge. Susan wore one of Jason's shirts, and he had on a pair of jeans. The scene was so cozy it made her chest ache. This was what she always wanted to come home to, she thought dreamily. No one had ever fit her hectic life more perfectly than this unconventional inventor. Maybe it was time she made that clear to him. "You know what I'd like to do after we eat?" His grin was devilish. "Again? I'd better pop some vitamins for dessert." Wrinkling her nose at him, she shook her head. "Not that. Well — not yet, anyway. What I would really like is a tour of your workshop. I've never even seen that part of your house." "Some other day, maybe." His gruff answer made her smile fade. "I wouldn't mind a mess. You've probably —" "It's just not a good time." She pushed her plate away. "You don't want me to see your work." "That's hardly a news flash. I told you —" Her heart breaking, she stood. "I wasn't asking as a reporter this time, but as the woman who's been sharing your bed for more than a month. I thought there was more between us than that." "Look, Susan —" She wondered how she had been so blind. "You've deliberately kept me from your work because you don't trust me. Just like you didn't particularly want me to meet your friends because you didn't expect me to be around long enough to be an important part of your life." "I learn from my experiences," he growled impatiently. "As for my work — well, that has nothing to do with us. With what we've shared." "And just what have we shared, Jason?" It took him a moment to realize the question wasn't rhetorical. "Some good times. It's been great —" "A nice little fling," she said bitterly, throwing her crumpled napkin at the table and turning toward the door. "You are such a jerk." "Damn it, Susan —" She ran up the stairs and locked his bedroom door behind her. Ten minutes later she emerged fully dressed, her chin high. Jason waited at the bottom of the stairs. "You're leaving?" She reached for the doorknob. "I'm leaving." He nodded fatalistically. "This is the way it always ends. Now you know why it's what I expected from the start." Infuriated, she whirled on him. "I don't know why those other women left, but I'll tell you why I am. Because you didn't care enough to ask me to stay. You were content to admire me on the TV screen, where I didn't interfere with your routines or jeopardize your precious secrets. Well, fine. Let's just keep it that way from now on. Happy lonely viewing, Dr. Morris."
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She slammed the door hard behind her. It hurt even worse that Jason made absolutely no effort to stop her. After all, she thought sadly, this was what he had expected all along. CHAPTER EIGHT "Jason, old friend, you're an idiot. A genius, but an idiot, nonetheless." Jason scowled at Randy over a pile of electronic components in his workshop. "Butt out." "Did you even try to get her to stay?" "What was I supposed to do, chain her to the kitchen table?" "I doubt that would have been necessary. She was crazy about you, dude. She didn't deserve to be treaed with your usual lack of consideration." "She wanted a scoop about my work. When she didn't get it, she left." Randy was quiet for a long time before he said, "If you believe that, you really are an idiot." "You're suddenly an expert on Susan Landers? You only met her once." "I'm an expert on you — and I think you broke her heart with your cynicism and mistrust. As for your heart, I'm beginning to wonder if you even have one." He had one, all right, and it had hurt like hell since Susan walked out on him two weeks ago. He kept waiting for the pain to fade; he'd certainly never ached this long over any other woman. But Susan was different. He'd never really cared that much about the others. He missed her so badly it even interfered with his work — and no one had ever done that before. Randy held up both hands. "Fine. I'll butt out. I've done too much as it is. But I thought you'd at least have the sense to ask this one for another chance." Wincing, Jason remembered Susan's parting words. You didn't care enough to ask me to stay. He had never claimed to be an expert with women, he mused after Randy departed. The workings of the female mind were more of a mystery to him than the most complex example of technology. But if there was even the slightest chance that Randy was right — that Susan had really cared more for him than the career she loved so much — then he really was a prize idiot. And he'd better get busy inventing a way to correct the biggest mistake he had ever made. *** Susan knew she should get out of her apartment rather than waste a lovely spring weekend moping. This behavior was embarrassing, she berated herself. Surely she had more backbone than this. She could pick up the pieces of a shattered heart and get on with her life. At least her heartbreak wasn't interfering with her job. She'd been told she'd done some of her best work during the past few weeks. She wished that made her feel better.
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Someone pounded on her apartment door. She frowned at the security panel, wondering why she hadn't been buzzed. Maybe it was one of her neighbors, she thought without much interest. "Who is it?" "Jason." Her chest clenched. "How did you get in the building? Go away." "Susan, let me in. There's something I want to show you." Because he spoke loudly and she hated to call attention to their quarrel, she opened the door. "Go away." Instead, he swept past her, towing a wheeled luggage carrier to which was strapped a large metal box secured with sturdy locks. "What is that?" she asked, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Trying to pretend she wasn't affected by seeing him again. He closed the door. "I want to show you my current project. You'd probably call it 'revolutionary' — that's what the few people who know about it keep saying. It's a new type of energy source, one that will make the severely limited and seriously polluting batteries in use now obsolete." She tried to care about the invention. "So you're ready to go public? And you're offering me an interview as — what? An apology of sorts?" "I'm a good two years from going public," he corrected with a scowl. "If word gets out about this too soon, it will be a nightmare for me. That's why I live behind walls — to guard my secrets." Her heart began to slam against her chest. "Then why are you here?" she whispered. He met her eyes squarely. "To prove that I trust you, in a way I've never trusted any woman before. And to do the one thing I was most afraid to do before. To ask — no, to beg you not to give up on me." Her eyes flooded. "You hurt me." "I know," he said, a muscle working in his cheek. His voice softened. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize that I could hurt you that badly." "Then you're —" "A jerk? That's what you called me before. Randy called me an idiot. You're both right. But I hope you'll give me a chance to try to change." She swiped impatiently at her cheeks. "I never wanted to change you, Jason. I thought you were perfect for me. I just wanted to believe you felt the same way about me." "I do." He took a step toward her. "No one's ever been more perfect for me." "You fell for a face on a TV screen," she accused him, afraid to trust him again. He shook his head. "I fell for a woman who's beautiful and bright and interesting and as committed to her career as I am to mine. And then I ran you off because I was afraid I didn't deserve someone that special. I'd never made a relationship work before, and I knew it would devastate me if I failed this time. I got scared, Susan."
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"What you've always needed," she said quietly, "is someone who understands your dedication to your work. Your love for it. Someone who has equally compelling interests of her own. Someone to share your life with without being joined at the hip 24/7. Someone who doesn't really mind when you forget birthdays and holidays, because she tends to forget them herself. Someone who loves you exactly the way you are." "That's exactly what I need," he said a bit unsteadily. "Do you happen to know anyone like that?" She reached out to him. "Here's a news flash, pal. You're looking at her." She was in his arms, her mouth crushed beneath his, almost before she saw him move. And there were no secrets left in his kiss. "You'll have to be patient with me," he muttered against her lips. "I've never been in love before. But I've always been a fast learner when something mattered to me enough." "We'll learn together," she promised, taking his hand. "It should be quite an adventure." *** It was a long time later when Susan lifted her head from Jason's bare shoulder and glanced toward the bedroom door. "Jason?" "Mm?" He sounded sleepy and content. "Is your invention okay in there? It was kind of risky of you to bring it out like this, wasn't it?" He looked a bit sheepish when he opened his eyes. "Um — Susan?" "Yes?" "That case is empty. I didn't really want to bring my work out in public like this." She raised an eyebrow. "You said you wanted to show it to me." "I do," he assured her quickly. "I'll take you on a thorough tour of my workshops the minute we walk into my house, I promise. I just — well, I have to be careful, you know." "So the case was just a prop?" "An illustration," he corrected. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." She sighed and crossed her hands on his chest, smiling crookedly at him. "You," she said, "are a very eccentric man. But at least it'll never be boring between us." Flipping her onto her back, he loomed over her with a wicked grin. "That I can promise you," he said, and covered her mouth with his.
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BAYOU REUNION by REBECCA YORK To his surprise, Chase Melancon has inherited the Belle Vista plantation in Louisiana. Old man Rousseau left him the grand mansion rather than leaving it to his grandsons, so Chase is preparing for trouble. But when Chase discovers that Julienne Rousseau is living in Belle Vista and needs his help, he knows he's in way over his head... Chapter: | 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7| 8| 9| 10| 11| 12| 13| 14| 15| 16| 17| 18| 19| 20| CHAPTER ONE Chase Melancon felt his chest tighten as he pulled to a stop at the wrought iron gate to Belle Vista plantation. Contrary to the name, the view wasn't very impressive. The gate hung crookedly on rusted hinges. And tall stands of cane had encroached on the access road, making it look more like a trail through the swamp than the entrance to a grand estate. Before climbing out of the van to move the barrier aside, Chase swept his dark gaze over the cypress and oak trees that blocked out most of the light. Then he picked up the automatic pistol that lay on the passenger seat and stuffed it in his belt. No use getting shot before he got a chance to inspect his property. "My property," he said aloud, as he brushed back the thick dark hair that had fallen over his brow. The reality of ownership struck him as he closed his strong hands around the rusted metal, and he went very still. Belle Vista plantation was his. Defying convention and his grasping relatives, old man Rousseau had left the house and surrounding land to Chase Melancon. He shook his head, still hardly able to believe the turn of events. The Melancon family had been servants on this plantation — at the beck and call of the Rousseaus. And now a Melancon was the top dog. If he lived long enough to establish his claim. After climbing back into the van once more, Chase drove slowly up the rutted drive, holding his breath as he came around the final curve and saw the house. From a distance, in the rays of the late afternoon sun, it looked just the same as he remembered. The wide galleries. The raised porch. The white columns. However, the closer he came to the edifice, the more he took in the state of disrepair. Some of the columns sagged. And mold discolored the corners of the white siding. Well, he was going to put it all right. Turn the house and grounds into a showplace. And he had the skills to do it. Before he'd left to enlist in the army, his father had taught him everything he knew about repairs and restoration. Some of Chase's tools were in the trunk. He'd bring the rest from Lafayette later. Again he drew his gun as he stepped onto the circular drive. Again he scanned the underbrush, looking for one of the Rousseau men, Hugo or Wyatt. Either of them would drop him in his tracks as soon as speak to him. He was cautious, too, of the weathered boards under his feet as he climbed the wide front steps. They needed replacing. So did much of the porch surface. Mr. Gaylord, the lawyer who had informed him of the legacy, had given him the key. He inserted it in the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped into the front hall. Instantly he knew that something wasn't right. The scurry of footsteps caught his ears. One of the bastards had gotten here first after all. "Hold it right there." The intruder ignored him.
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In a rush of movement, Chase pounded down the hall, gun drawn, in time to catch up with a fleeing figure disappearing through the kitchen door. He got a quick impression of a black T-shirt, black sweat pants. A baseball cap. He grabbed an arm, whipped the intruder around. The baseball cap flew off, and long blond hair cascaded into view. He drew in a quick, shocked breath as he found himself staring into the wide blue eyes of Julienne Rousseau.… CHAPTER TWO Chase felt Julienne tremble, saw her sink against the wall, her ivory skin blotched by fear. Then he watched in fascination as she pulled herself together, straightened, lifted her chin as though her family still owned this place and he was the trespasser. She'd been beautiful as a child, more so as an adolescent. But now...she was stunning. The pale skin, the wide blue eyes, and the wild golden hair creating a vision that called to him with a familiar, forbidden longing. For an instant, he wondered if this was really her or some dream from his subconscious come to life. Her gaze flicked from his face to the pistol in his hand. "Are you going to shoot me, Chase?" she asked in the musical voice that he remembered so well — the voice that still had the power to stir his senses. He pulled himself together. "Why shouldn't I? You're trespassing on my property." Doubt kindled in her eyes. "I know. But we were...friends. I thought you'd..." "I'd what?" She gave a small shrug, but he was still dealing with her previous statement. "Friends." He threw the word back at her. "I was the hired help. You were the little princess who wound your father — and everybody else — around your fingers." "My father's dead now." She said it with deep sorrow. "I'm sorry," he murmured before he remembered that he owed her nothing. They had played together as children. And when they had reached adolescence, he had longed for more than friendship. He'd even been foolish enough to think she returned his feelings — until the night he'd found out she was just toying with him. He gave a small shake of his head. She'd dashed his hopes in the cruelest way possible, and he had left the next day to enlist in the army. His eyes must have given him away, because he saw her cringe. Well, she was going to find out that he had a long memory. "How did you get in here?" he demanded. "It wasn't difficult. I opened a window." He made his voice flat and hard. "What — did your brothers send you on ahead to try to persuade me to leave? Or are you supposed to get me to let down my guard so they can kill me?
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"My brothers don't know I'm here." "I'll bet." "It's the truth." Julienne stared into his dark eyes, seeing the new anger and the old hurt. A wave of sadness swept over her. She'd come here in desperation. Now she realized her mistake — and she was terrified. But she wouldn't let him see that, couldn't let him see. "I knew Grandfather left you the plantation," she whispered. "I was happy for you when I heard." "Why should I believe that — or any other lie you have to tell me?" She tried to push past the harsh words, past the rigid way he held his body. Once his good looks had been boyish. Now he was all grown up and truly magnificent with a strong face and well developed muscles. Even the dark hair that was a little too long and a little too shaggy added to the picture of defiant masculinity. "Why should I believe you?" he said again. She felt her eyes grow moist and struggled against the sudden surge of pain and fear. "Because if you don't, then I'm in even worse trouble than I thought," she whispered. CHAPTER THREE Chase watched Julienne standing there with her breath shallow in her chest. He could throw her out right now. This house where she had grown up was his by the terms of her grandfather's will. But something stopped him. Maybe the ghost of their old friendship. "This place was a mess," she said softly. "I cleaned it. I can help you fix it up. And I can cook." Before he could comment, she went on quickly, "You only remember the girl I was. I'm a lot different now." He could see it. In her eyes. In the tight lines of her face. "What are you really doing here?" he demanded. "I knew you were coming home, and I needed a place to stay." "Yeah? Well, let's be logical. You expect me to believe your brothers don't know you're here?" "My brothers are in New Orleans. I went to them when I needed...help. And they turned me away. I haven't seen them since." He felt his jaw drop open. "They turned you away? Why?" She bent her head, spoke in a barely audible voice. "That's between me and them." He took in her defeated posture and her low tone, and suddenly he didn't have the heart to keep jabbing at her. If she needed a place to crash, well, she could make herself useful around here for a couple of days. Then…she'd better leave, for both their sakes. Because if Hugo or Wyatt found her hanging out with Chase Melancon, they'd kill them both. And that would solve a big problem for the Rousseau brothers — because if the present owner died without heirs, this place reverted to the Rousseau family.
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Julienne broke into his thoughts, and he could see she was making an effort to change the subject. "The electricity and the gas aren't turned on. But I have a cooler and a camp stove. I made Creole gumbo yesterday. Are you hungry?" He realized suddenly that he was. He followed her into the kitchen, silently acknowledging that she had told the truth about one thing at least. The room sparkled. She'd cleaned the countertops, the old appliances, the floor. "I've got some of the old hurricane lamps out of the cellar. For when it gets dark," she said. "Okay. Tomorrow I can check the electrical system, see if it's safe to turn it on." "You know how to do that?" "Yeah." Pulling out a chair, he sat down, stretching out his legs as he watched her efficiently prepare a meal on her makeshift equipment. As the gumbo warmed, it filled the room with a wonderful aroma. She set a plate in front of him. And a cup of strong, chicory-laced coffee. "Aren't you going to eat?" "I had lunch a little while ago." She propped her hips against the counter, keeping several yards of space between them. He forked up a bite of the seafood stew. It was rich and flavorful — the way he liked it. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to please him, it seemed. Yet he found it was impossible to stifle the kernel of resentment that he'd carried inside himself all these years. Tipping his head to one side, he peered at her. "This is good. My compliments to the chef — and to your housekeeping." Her cheeks colored, but her eyes turned suddenly wary. "Thank you," she said in a thin voice His eyes traveled over her. She was wearing a shapeless man's shirt and baggy chino pants, clothing that almost but not quite hid her feminine curves. "What if cooking and cleaning aren't enough to earn your keep?" He saw her swallow before asking carefully, "What do you mean, exactly?" "I think you know what I mean. I might require a little more of you than just household help." Her skin color changed from pink to white. "No." "So even though I own this place now, I'm still not good enough for you?" he pressed. She knitted her hands together in front of her. "I...can't." The broken way she said it sent a ripple of cold skimming over his skin. Instinctively he knew that his words had cut her more deeply than he'd believed possible. "Julienne?" He started to rise, started to go to her. But she was already darting out of his reach. She fled from the kitchen and he stared at the door flapping back and forth behind her long after she'd disappeared. CHAPTER FOUR
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Julienne fled from Chase — fled up the wide front stairs, then along the upper hall to the small room she'd taken for herself. Without thinking, she rushed across the room and threw herself into the closet, pulling the door closed behind her. In the dark, she huddled against the wall, her knees drawn up against her chest and her head bent. She'd been a fool to think that this could work, a fool to assume that Julienne Rousseau could just walk back into Chase Melancon's life — and everything would be all right between them. Not after the way it had all ended seven years ago. Her cheeks were wet, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand, struggling to get control of her roiling emotions, angry with herself and with him. She might as well pack up and leave, she thought, wondering where she was going to go. When she heard footsteps in the hall, she went rigid. "Julienne?" It was Chase, his voice soft but urgent. She didn't answer. "Julienne, that was a dumb thing for me to say. I'm sorry. Really sorry. You can trust me to act like a gentleman." There was a long pause, during which her heart started to pound wildly in her chest. Did he mean that? Or was he just saying it because it was what he thought she wanted to hear? "Don't do anything as stupid as I did. Don't run away from me. Please," he added, and she heard his contrite, strained tone. He sounded almost as upset as she felt, but her throat was too clogged for her to answer. And even if she could have spoken, she wasn't sure what she would have said. "I'm going to bring some stuff in from the van. Then I'm going down to the den. I'd…like it if you came down, too." Chase stood in the hall, his breath shallow in his chest. It took all his formidable will to stop himself from tearing down the hall, tearing through the rooms to find her. The wounded, vulnerable look on her face when she'd fled the kitchen haunted him. Something had happened to her. Something bad. He knew that from the violence of her reaction — knew it as surely as he knew the pain he felt inside himself now. And he was deathly afraid that he might know what it was. He wanted to call out to her again. Chère, trust me. Just trust me enough to tell me what happened to you. Trust him! After the insult he'd flung at her? Cursing himself, he turned and stalked down the stairs, forcing himself to tread lightly in his heavy boots. Shadows gathered like ghosts around him in the darkened hallway. Outside, he stood for a moment in the waning sunlight, dragging in air and expelling it in great gusts. Then he slammed open the door of the van and began pulling out heavy equipment, straining his muscles, the exertion calming him a little.
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But only a little. Because he knew he had screwed up badly. And the worst part was that he didn't know if she would give him a second chance. CHAPTER FIVE Julienne stepped quietly out of her room. There was no electricity or running water in the house, but she'd used some of the water she'd hauled from the cistern to wash her face and hands. Although the sun had almost set, there was a glow at the end of the hall, and she saw that Chase had left a lighted hurricane lamp for her. Picking it up, she found her hand was trembling. By the time she reached the den, she felt like her heart was going to pound its way through the wall of her chest. Chase was slumped in one of the armchairs. Hardly making a sound, she glided into the room and took an identical chair a few feet away. "Thank you for coming back," he said. "I guess I had to." "Why?" "I've waited seven years to tell you what happened the night you left." He made a low, strangled sound in his throat. "You don't owe me any explanations. We were just kids back then." Ignoring him, she swallowed hard and went on. "I know you thought I chickened out. Or decided you weren't good enough for me, and I changed my mind about...about making love with you." She said it in a rush, glad that the darkness hid her suddenly hot cheeks. "I was coming to meet you, like we planned. Then I realized my brother, Wyatt, was following me. I knew if he caught us together, he'd...hurt you." "I could take care of myself." "Chase, he had a gun. I saw it." He cursed softly. She had more to say, but now it was impossible for her to speak above a whisper. "I was coming to find you the next morning. But you...you'd cleared out." Her hands twisted together in her lap, as she said, "I know you were never sure of what I felt for you. Is that why you didn't stick around?" She thought he wasn't going to answer. Then his voice cut across the darkness. "That was part of it. Back then, I wasn't all that sure of myself." Silence stretched between them until she said, "I heard later that you'd joined the army. How was it?" "Okay. I did my hitch. Then I moved to Lafayette and put the skills I learned from my dad to work. Doing remodeling jobs and restorations of old houses. Like this one." She was eager to hear more. It sounded as though he'd made a success of his life, and she was so happy for him.
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But when he spoke again, it was to change the subject abruptly. "What happened to you after I left?" "I got a job with an accounting firm." "And then?" A simple question. She gave him as simple an answer. "I quit. Then I came back here." She knew he was waiting for her to elaborate, but she sat with her head bowed. "Someone...hurt you," he finally said, and she felt a shiver cross her skin. "Yes," she whispered, wishing her previous behavior hadn't given her away. But then Chase had always been perceptive. "Can you tell me about it?" he asked softly. She sucked in a couple of ragged breaths and let them out. Before she could change her mind, she blurted. "I was working late. This guy...this guy...broke into the building. I guess he came to steal stuff. And I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had a gun. He… Uh...he dragged me into the boss's office. Pulled me down on the rug...and he..." Her voice hitched and she stopped speaking. "Did he rape you?" The ugly word hung between them like a razor-sharp sword. She couldn't speak, only nod as she slid lower in her chair. "And I was dumb enough to come on to you in the kitchen." "You didn't know," she managed. "That doesn't matter. I should have treated you better." "Chase, it's not you. It's me. I ran away from you because I don't know if I can let a man touch me." CHAPTER SIX Chase felt his heart twist inside his chest as he heard Julienne's broken voice. She had said that she didn't know if she could let a man touch her. But her next words humbled him. "I came here because I wanted to be near you. Maybe that's not fair of me. But here I am." She looked so fragile. So lovely. He wanted to go to her then, take her in his arms. "Chère, I want to be closer to you," he said. "If I come over there, will I frighten you?" "No," she answered, but he heard the quaver in her voice. Carefully, he eased himself up, then moved to the floor beside her chair. He touched the back of her hand and felt her jump. Then she seemed to relax as he folded his fingers around hers. He held her hand for long moments, then brought her fingers to his lips and kissed her. "Chère," he murmured, his lips moving against her flesh, "I give you my word, anything you and I do together, it will be because it's what we both want. Okay?"
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"Okay," she answered, her voice still uneven, her eyes telling him she couldn't believe how much he was offering her. She looked quickly away, and took her lower lip between her teeth, but he sensed that there was still something she wanted to say. "What?" he asked softly, stroking his thumb across her knuckles. She swallowed, then whispered, "You mean you still might want…me, after what I told you?" His chest felt so tight that he could hardly breathe. "How can you even ask that question?" "Because Hugo and Wyatt..." she gulped. "They said I was looking for trouble. That I never should have been at the office that late." Again she came to a halt. He felt a surge of anger at the two men who couldn't even stand up for their sister in a time of trouble. But then, Hugo and Wyatt had never impressed him as being interested in helping anyone besides themselves. "You mean those no good bastards blamed you?" "People were talking about me. My brothers didn't like it. I can understand why." He swore under his breath. "You get attacked and those jerks feel as if their honor's been tarnished. I'd like to kill them." "That won't do either one of us any good." He nodded tightly. "I had to get away. Then I knew you were coming back, and I was hoping you'd let me stay here. Until I get on my feet." "That's all you want? To stay here for a little while?" "I...want more than that," she said in a small voice. "But I don't dare let myself think about how much I want." "You can dare anything! You always had guts. You got together with me when we were teenagers — when you knew your grandfather would whip your hide if he found us together." "It didn't work out, did it?" "It will," he said with conviction. "How can it? I told you I can't stand being touched." "I'm touching you now." He saw her eyes widen. "You are. I guess because it's you, and I didn't even think about it." He squeezed her hand, but he didn't ask for anything more. Not yet. "So what about your brothers?" he asked. "What are their plans?" "They didn't confide in me. I think they'll try to take this place away from you." "I'll be ready for them." "I hope so. But they're...dangerous."
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"I know. I'm not going to get careless." Before she could continue with the subject, he said, "You should get some sleep." His hand moved to stroke her beautiful golden hair, but he thought better of it and pulled back at the last minute. "Things will look better in the morning." "They already look better." "Good." He left the oil lamp where it was and switched on the nine-volt flashlight he'd brought. It wasn't as charming as the lamplight, but it was more practical for moving around in the dark. He'd come back later and put out the lamps. Stepping into the hall, he followed Julienne toward the stairs. He was only a few paces behind her when he heard her scream…. CHAPTER SEVEN Julienne's scream sent Chase pounding after her. In the darkened hallway ahead of him, he saw her arms flail, her body teeter, then drop several feet as her legs disappeared through the floor. Tossing the flashlight aside with a clatter, he sprang forward and grabbed her under the arms before she could fall to the basement below. The flashlight had landed with its beam pointing in the wrong direction. But he could just make out what had happened. A section of the old flooring had given way beneath her. And he could feel the damaged boards bowing under his own weight. If he wasn't careful, they were both going to crash through and land on the cellar floor. "Chère, don't move," he cautioned. "Hold perfectly still." She gulped. "Okay." The boards under him groaned. Praying he could get to her in time, he lay down on his stomach and stretched out his legs to distribute his weight over as wide an area as possible. Still, the surface made a cracking noise. Then some of the wood fell away, crashing onto the cement floor below them. Julienne made a strangled sound. "It's going to be fine. You're doing great," he said as he gently pulled her up, moving backward as he eased her legs through the broken area. She cried out as a board tore across her pants leg, and he stopped abruptly. Then the floor shifted under him, and he knew he had to move quickly. Jerking backward, he took Julienne with him. She choked out a sob as they tumbled together onto a section of the floor where the surface felt stable. He felt her shoulders shaking, heard her gasp of relief as he clasped her in his arms. He lay on his back. She was sprawled across him, both of them breathing hard. "Are you all right?" he asked, between gulps of air. "Yes. Oh God, Chase, the floor…" "You're safe now. I've got you."
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He squeezed his eyes shut, relief flooding through him like morning sunlight. He clung to her, stroking his hands across her shoulders, over her hair, feeling her trembling subside as her body relaxed against his. At first all he could think about was what might have happened if he hadn't gotten there in time. He pressed her close, feeling the way her slender body molded itself to his. His hand stroked up and down her back, comforting her, as well as himself. It had been an eternity since he had held her in his arms. Yet the time they'd been apart suddenly seemed of no importance. She'd been a teenager back then. Now her body was more mature, more feminine. He could feel the soft mounds of her breasts, which had flattened themselves against his chest, her hips pressing against his middle. The narrow indentation of her waist, where his free hand curved to steady her. Without conscious thought, the stroking of his hands changed, becoming more sensual as long-buried needs rose to the surface of his mind. His body hardened, and he made a low sound in his throat as he gathered her closer. For a moment ripe with promise, she seemed to melt against him. Then, in an instant, the sensual spell shattered. CHAPTER EIGHT One moment Chase was holding a warm and pliant woman in his arms. In the next, she was gasping in fear, pushing herself away from him. Frantically she levered her body off of his and scooted across the floor, putting the width of the hall between them. When he saw the wild, panicked look in her eyes, he called out gently, "Don't run away from me." At the same time, he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position. Julienne stayed where she was, her back pressed to the wall. Slowly he turned to face her but made no move to come any closer. As he stared at her, he felt a wave of tender emotions surge through him. He had been afraid to admit his vulnerability, even to himself. But he had never stopped loving this woman. Never — no matter how hard he had tried to put her out of his mind. And now here they were, facing each other across four feet of charged space that might as well have been at opposite ends of the earth. "Chère, it's all right. I won't hurt you." "You...you got hard," she whispered. "I could feel it — pressing against my leg." His heart was thudding inside his chest, but he kept his gaze steady, kept his voice even. "That's right. I couldn't keep myself from wanting you. Not when you were lying on top of me." Her next words shook him to the core. "You think I was trying to turn you on?" "Of course not!" He saw her swallow and knew that what she had been through — with the rapist and then with her damn fool brothers — had affected her thinking on every level. He knew, too, that he could lose her if he wasn't careful. "Chère, I'm not blaming you for anything," he said softly. "Why not?" she pressed.
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"You were frightened, and you were clinging to me because I'd just pulled you out of that hole in the floor. And I was frightened, too. At first all I thought about was holding on to you — making sure you were safe. Then...when I knew you were all right, I started feeling how soft and feminine you were in my arms. There's nothing wrong with any of that." He watched her moisten her lips, give a small nod. He could see she was hanging on to every word as he added, "Please, don't be afraid of me. I would never do anything to you that you didn't want me to do. Do you understand that?" "I want to believe you." "Chère, I would never lie to you." Julienne looked into his eyes, longing with every fiber of her being to believe him — to believe that the two of them could win back everything they'd both lost. She had come here with that hope blazing in her mind — in her soul. With a small nod, she pushed herself up straighter. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy," she murmured. "But you came here. You came to me." "Yes." "Can you talk about why?" I came here because I love you. Because I knew you were the only man in the world who could help me. The words trembled inside her, but they were still too dangerous to speak. Instead, she gave him a quick shake of her head. She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't press her. Suddenly aware that they were still sitting on the floor in the hall, she started to push herself up and gave a small gasp.... CHAPTER NINE "What? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Chase asked urgently. Julienne pulled up her pants leg, inspected her ankle. Where her foot had plunged through the floorboards, the skin was raw and scraped. "You're bleeding," he said, and she realized that he had instinctively moved closer to her. "I'll be fine." "You can get a nasty infection — unless we clean that up." She might have protested, but she knew he was right. So she let him lead her back down the hall to the den. Sinking into the chair where she'd been sitting previously, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to hold herself together. Out in the hallway, she heard stamping noises and thought Chase was probably testing the floor to make sure there wouldn't be any other nasty surprises.
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When she heard his footsteps returning, her eyes snapped open. He was carrying the camp flashlight, a bowl of water, paper towels, and a first aid kit. He set the light on the floor where it could shine on her leg. Then he hunkered down beside her chair. "Chère, I'm going to wash the wound, then put on antiseptic. Okay?" "Okay," she agreed, struggling to keep her voice steady. She watched as he dipped the towel into the water. When his fingers touched her ankle, she sucked in a small breath, held herself rigid. His ministrations were gentle as he cleaned her injured flesh, then brought the flashlight closer so he could inspect the wound. "I don't see any splinters. Do you feel any?" "I don't think so." "Good." He swabbed on the antiseptic, and she couldn't hold back a small sound as she felt the sting. "I'm sorry." "It's not your fault." She watched him retrieve a roll of gauze, watched him slip off her shoe so he could wind the bandage under her heel and around her ankle. As his fingers moved against her skin, she shivered, but she didn't draw away. After he'd tied the end of the gauze, he kept hold of her. "I'd forgotten how small your feet are," he murmured, stroking his finger under her arch. She remembered long ago when he'd held her foot like this. "You used to tease me about them. You told me they looked like they belonged to a little kid." "You remember that?" he asked with a laugh. "Um-hum." "Now I think they're very feminine," he said, clasping her flesh more tightly. He stared up at her, simply stroking her foot, his fingers playing with her heel, her instep. His touch felt good, so good that she ached to forget her fears. But they were still there, in the background, ready to overwhelm her if she thought he were going to make demands she couldn't meet. He must have sensed her uncertainty, because he gently slid her slipper back on and stood, wiping his hands across the knees of his pants. She pushed herself out of the chair, tested the injured ankle. "All right?" he asked.
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"Yes." "Then we should go to bed," he said. "And in the morning, I'm going to take a good look at that floor." The suddenly sharp tone of his voice made her heartbeat quicken. "What are you saying?" she asked. "The boards didn't break by themselves. Someone cut through them." CHAPTER TEN Julienne looked stunned. "Someone cut the floorboards?" she asked. "But who?" "Three guesses. Or rather two," Chase answered, his voice coming out more sharply than he intended. "You think my brothers were here?" She gulped. "Doing things?" "Yeah, that's exactly what I think." Her head jerked up. "I didn't see them." "Maybe they came for a visit before you arrived." "Maybe? You think I saw them here, and I didn't say anything about it?" "No. Of course not," he answered quickly, wondering exactly what he had been thinking. Picking up the flashlight, she started for the hall. When he grabbed her arm, she went rigid. He let his own hand drop back to his side. "Wait. I don't want you getting hurt again. Stay on the left side of the hall, away from the hole." "I was planning to do that," she clipped out. As he watched her walk rapidly up the stairs, he cursed softly under his breath. He hadn't meant to accuse her of anything. But it seemed she'd taken it that way. He squeezed his hands into fists, wishing he could close them around the neck of the man who had raped her — and then do the same with her damn brothers. The Julienne he remembered had been so confident, so sure of herself. The rapist had made her afraid of men. It seemed her brothers had done their best to pound her self-esteem into the ground. With a sigh, he waited until he heard her door close. Then he went back for the oil lamp and started up the stairs to the room where he'd put his luggage. Chase kicked off his shoes and socks and lay down on the bed in his jeans and T-shirt. It seemed to take eons for him to fall asleep. Then it felt like only moments later when suddenly a sound jerked him awake. Grabbing the gun he'd shoved under his pillow, he leaped out of bed and stood listening intently. The sound came again. A moan. From Julienne's room.
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The gun at the ready, he ran down the hall and threw open her door. He had expected to find someone in the room with her, but she was alone, her head thrashing on the pillow. "No," she whimpered in her sleep. She was dressed in a long T-shirt that would have skimmed her thighs, if it hadn't ridden up, revealing the silky fabric of the panties she wore underneath, and her long, lovely legs. The gun was still in his hand as he crossed the room. Then her eyes snapped open and focused on him — focused on the weapon. The scream that tore from her throat made his whole body go rigid. She sprang back, her shoulders hitting the wall. "Chère, no! It's all right. I didn't mean to frighten you. I thought someone was attacking you. But you were having a bad dream." As he spoke, he set the gun down on the dresser. She stared at him, her back still wedged against the wall as though she needed the support to hold herself upright. "I'm sorry I scared you," he repeated. "I'll leave if you want," he added, waiting for her answer with his breath frozen in his lungs. CHAPTER ELEVEN Julienne wet her parched lips. What if I wanted you to stay here? What if I wanted you to hold me...but I was pretty sure I couldn't give you any more than that?" Her whole body tensed as she waited to hear his answer to that. It came swiftly. "You don't have to give me anything, chère. You only have to let me shield you from your nightmares." His eyes were fixed on her as he took a step toward her and then another. Each step closed a little more of the space between them until he was standing beside the bed. He towered over her, and for a moment she felt her chest tighten. "Can I sit down?" "Yes," she managed. She was vividly conscious of his weight making the mattress shift. Then he scooted across the bed and joined her, sitting with his back against the wall. Lazily he stretched out his legs and leaned comfortably back. She stayed where she was for long moments — watching him — wondering if she could really handle this. Then, before she could change her mind, she closed the distance between them, pressing her shoulder against his. Slowly, giving her time to escape, he turned toward her. When she stayed where she was, he opened his arms, and she moved into them, moved so that she was pressed against the solid wall of his chest. With a small sigh, she let her eyes drift closed and her head fall to his shoulder. She breathed in his scent, snuggled into the warmth of his body. The strong arms that circled her shoulders were like a refuge.
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"Oh, Chase," she murmured. "I missed you so much." His hand stroked over her hair. "Did you?" "Yes." She paused. "I wouldn't lie to you about that. Or anything else." "I know." She dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush. "But downstairs, when you asked if I'd seen my brothers here —" He cut her off before she could finish the sentence. "I wasn't accusing you of anything. I was just frustrated, and I guess I was taking it out on you. I'm sorry. I won't do that again." She nodded against his shoulder. "And you won't run away from me. Deal?" "Yes," she breathed. "Because I've missed you, too." "Did you? Why?" "Are you fishing for compliments?" "Maybe." "You don't need to fish. I'll give them freely. You're more beautiful than the last time I saw you, and you're so brave." "I'm a coward." "If you were a coward, you wouldn't be here in my arms." He turned his head, stroked his lips against her cheek, her hair. "I'll hold you as long as you want me," he whispered. Forever, she thought dreamily. If she could just stay in his arms forever, she would be content. He made no demands on her, only held her and stroked her, and after a time she realized she wanted more. "Chase?" "Umm?" "I want to kiss you." "You don't have to ask permission." "I know. But I want...you to understand…." She stopped, swallowed. "I mean...I don't think I can go any further than that. But I want to try. So much." CHAPTER TWELVE They were sitting sideways across the bed, Chase's back pressed against the wall and Julienne in his arms.
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Now he shifted her slightly so that his eyes could meet hers. "I told you I wasn't going to push you into anything you're not ready for." She could hear her own uneven breath rushing in and out of her lungs. "I want to kiss you," she repeated. "But what if... what if...you're not satisfied with that?" "A kiss isn't going to turn me into a savage beast, if that's what you're worried about." Despite herself, she laughed, and the laughter broke some of the tension. Without giving herself time to draw back, she slid her hand possessively across his broad shoulders. "Oh, Chase," she sighed, "I dreamed of seeing you again. And now I don't know what I can give you." "Chère, I'm here to give you anything you want. As little or as much." Anything she wanted. With hands that trembled slightly, she reached up, tunneling her fingers through his dark hair so that she could bring his face within reach. The first touch of his lips on hers was sweet and warm, like a familiar memory wafting on a spring breeze. Chase. This was Chase, and she knew her instincts had been right all along. Coming to him was the right thing to do. His mouth melted against hers, and she made a little exclamation of pleasure. There was so much she wanted to say to him. So much locked inside her. She was still afraid to speak the words, but she could show him what she was feeling. Eyes closed, she shut out everything but him, the taste of him, the feel of him. He sent her senses on overload as memories melded with present reality. She was aware of so many details. The silky texture of his hair slipping against her fingers, the hard muscles of his shoulders, the scent of soap and water and man. "Julienne." Her name sighed out of him like a prayer of thanks. Craving more, she eased his lips apart so that she could taste him more fully, drink him in. And though his mouth moved hungrily over hers, she knew he was holding back — clamping down on the strength of his response. When she finally lifted her head, they were both breathing hard. Her whole body felt hot and tingly. Her breasts ached. And her brain felt as if it were on fire. She knew what she had always known. She wanted this man — needed him. Yet there were other remembered sensations, too. The panic that came from a man's heavy weight pressing her down into the carpet. The terror of helplessness. The fear of having all control taken away. Chase must have seen the sudden panic racing through her because he drew back so that his chest was no longer pressed against her breasts. "Chère?" "I...can't. Not yet." "I understand." "But you want me," she answered, her gaze falling to his lap. There was no way to hide the truth of what they both knew.
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"And you want me. I know that as surely as you can see the state I'm in." She gulped. "Yes." "Then everything's going to be okay." She wanted that to be true. More than anything she'd ever wanted in her life. Yet fear still kept her from reaching for her heart's desire. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Chase gazed into the troubled eyes of the woman he loved. "We can work things out, chère, because I'm willing to wait for you. For as long as it takes." "And what if I...never can...give myself to you?" "I think you will, because what we both want is stronger than your fear. But I'm not going to make demands. I told you that." She gave him a tiny nod. "If I leave you, will you be all right? Will the nightmares come back?" "I don't know," she answered. "But we'd both better try to get some sleep." "Okay." In fact he lay awake long into the night — aroused and angry with the bastards who had torn Julienne's life to shreds. Downstairs the next morning, he assessed the extent of the damage to the hall floor. Someone had made tiny cuts in the old wood — cuts that had allowed the boards to give way under Julienne's weight. He was pretty sure her lowlife brothers had been in the house. Last night she'd been worried that he'd think she was involved. No way! At least he could thank the Lord it hadn't happened when she was here alone, he thought as he got out a hammer, chisel, and crowbar and began removing rotten wood. He had pulled up most of the damaged boards when he heard her footsteps above him — moving around the upper part of the house. His breath stilled as he silently acknowledged that he'd been listening for her all along. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the hall. Then, looking up he saw her coming down the stairs. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a golden cloud. And she'd changed from jeans and a shirt into a soft pink and green shift that flowed around her legs, accenting her slender beauty. In the morning light she looked different. More relaxed. Younger. Freer. As he stared at her, he saw color come into her cheeks. "Hi," she said, her voice low and throaty. Then, "The nightmare didn't come back, and this morning...I woke up feeling...better." "I'm glad."
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"I mean better than I have in weeks. You make me feel strong," she added. "Strong enough to fight for what I want." He thought he understood what she was telling him, and joy leaped inside him. He might have gone to her then and folded her into his arms, but he didn't want her to think he was pushing to satisfy his own needs. Before he could respond, she gestured toward the pile of boards and went on quickly, "You must have been up early." "I wanted to get this fixed as soon as possible." "Have you eaten breakfast?" "Just coffee." He picked up some wood and loaded it into the wheelbarrow that he'd brought into the hall. "It's pretty dark in here. I should put a barrier up so nobody falls into this hole." "Not on my account. I'm not going to forget it's there." "I guess not." "Can I help you?" "I'm fine." "Then I'll fix you something to eat. How does old-fashioned Cajun-style French toast sound?" "Pan-perdue? Wonderful." He wheeled the load of refuse down the hall, through the kitchen and out onto the back porch, where he dumped it into a canvas carrier. From the top of the steps he stood looking out at the overgrown foliage in back of the house — the water oaks draped with Spanish moss. The thicket of cane that had grown to twice the size he remembered. Here in the bayou country, plants grew quickly, and in the time that the property had been neglected, unruly nature had invaded the once manicured garden. Back beyond the cane thicket was an area that his father had used as a dumping ground. He could stow the wood there — along with the other debris that he hauled out of the house. The path to the place was almost obliterated, but he could just make it out from his vantage point on the porch. Slinging the carrier over his shoulder, he started into greenery — then froze as he heard the sound of steel jaws snapping shut.… CHAPTER FOURTEEN Julienne hummed an old Cajun dance tune to herself as she cracked eggs into a bowl. Outside, the sultry warmth of another day was building. She had heard people complain about the steamy Louisiana heat. But she loved it. Loved being back at Belle Vista. Then the morning calm was shattered by a shout. She knew instantly that it was Chase. And it sounded as though he was in some kind of trouble out in the swampy area beyond the house.
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Lord, she'd been feeling so at home. Now she remembered the dangers of this place. What if he'd come upon a gator or a poisonous snake, or even a bear? All of them had been known to venture near the house at one time or another. Flinging open the kitchen door, she looked wildly around but didn't spot him immediately. "Chase?" "I'm fine. Don't come out here." Ignoring the warning, she crossed the porch, shading her eyes as she followed the sound of his voice. Finally she spotted his head and shoulders through a screen of foliage about 50 feet away. With no thought for her own safety, she pounded across the porch, then sprinted down the back steps. Crossing the yard at a dead run, she made for the tangle of greenery beyond the house. He shot her a warning look. "Get back." "No." Plowing ahead she found him hunkered down in the dirt. As she drew up beside him, he looked down toward the ground. When she followed his gaze, she saw that the toe of his work boot was caught in the massive jaws of a steel animal trap. On a gasp, she knelt beside him, staring in dumb-eyed horror at the wicked-looking teeth that bit into the leather. "Chase! Are you all right?" "Yeah. But I'd be better if you went back to the house." "Not until I know your foot is all right." He sighed. "It is. But I'm damn lucky I have on these steel-toed shoes — or this thing would be embedded in my foot right now." His features were set in grim lines as he studied the mechanism. Then he sprang the catch and began to ease the saw-toothed jaws open. Once his boot was free, he untied the lace and eased it off, carefully inspecting his foot. Julienne held her breath until she saw that the sharp points had missed his flesh. "Let's get out of here," he grated. "There could be other traps like this one out here — and Lord knows what else. I don't want you outside again until I make sure the area is secure." Despite the heat, she shivered. She'd already walked around the house several times, inspecting the state of the property. It was only by dumb luck that she hadn't come this way. When he slung his arm around her shoulder as he led her back to the house, she pressed herself tightly to his side. They climbed the porch together, and he carefully shut the door, then turned to face her. "Will you promise me you'll stay inside until I check the rest of the property?" "I can't hide in here." "Do you know how I'd feel if something happened to you?" He stopped and swallowed. "Like I'd lost a major part of myself." "Oh. Chase. That's the way I feel. If something happened to you, I'd lose everything."
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"I'm here. I'm fine! I'll be here for as long as you want me." Though the words were uttered with an underlying passion, he stood unmoving. CHAPTER FIFTEEN "Chase." Julienne whispered his name, because he filled her universe. She had been dead inside for months. Scared. Unsure of how she was going to face life. Now she knew. If she had the guts to reach for what she wanted. And she understood she was the one who must do the reaching. Because he'd said he wasn't going to push her into anything she didn't want. And he meant to keep that promise. When she couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer, she raised her face toward his. Still, he held himself rigid. Last night she had told him she wanted to kiss him. What she'd really wanted was to make love with him. But she'd been afraid to act on her desire. She wasn't going to let fear stand in her way again. With a heady feeling of power, she took a step closer and brushed her lips against his. It was only the barest contact, but all the good things she'd felt the night before came swirling back over her like a shower of stars raining down from a black velvet sky. Slowly she experimented with the pleasure of it, rubbing her mouth back and forth against his, increasing the pressure, nibbling, taking his lip between her teeth, then easing up. "Do I have to do all the work?" she asked, her mouth millimeters from his. "No," he answered in a strangled voice, just before his mouth took command and his arms tightened around her. The kiss went from warm to white-hot in the space of a heartbeat. He angled his head, his mouth skilled and hungry, so that her knees weakened — she needed to anchor her hands against his shoulders. When he silently asked her to open her lips, she did his bidding — then shivered with delight as his tongue swept into her mouth, stroking, arousing. This was what she'd craved from him all along, she thought with the last shreds of coherence her brain possessed, the two of them caught in the eye of a storm, so that the only hope of survival lay in clinging together. At the same time, a tiny grain of fear wavered at the edge of her consciousness. She had asked for this. She wanted this. But the idea of giving up control was still daunting. He must have sensed her uncertainty, because he raised his head. "Chère," he murmured gently, "I asked you to tell me if I was going too fast for you. I mean it." "You're not." "I think I am. I think we'd better slow down a little." He stepped back so that several inches of space separated them. With his body heat gone, a chill swept over her, and she cupped her hands convulsively around her shoulders. "Chase — don't stop."
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He had been looking at her. Now his eyes were fixed on some point outside the window. As she watched, his expression changed from passionate to angry. "Chase, what is it?" Instead of answering her, he swore.… CHAPTER SIXTEEN "Chase, what's wrong?" Julienne repeated. "I saw somebody outside the house!" "But..." "One of your brothers. Hugo or Wyatt. I haven't seen them in a long time, so I don't know which it was. But I recognized the profile — the big beak of a nose. The jutting jaw." She shook her head in denial. But even as she tried to tell herself it couldn't be true, she was turning toward the window, scanning the foliage behind the house. The scene was just as she had remembered it — the water oaks draped with Spanish moss. The cypress trees beyond them. The cane thicket. Yet now she wondered who might be lurking in the dappled shade. "I'm going up to get my gun," Chase said. "You stay here — away from the windows." She didn't want him to leave her, but she didn't protest as he strode toward the hall. Before she could draw in a dozen shallow breaths, he was back beside her, the gun in his hand. "What are we going to do?" she asked. "I'm going out there. You stay inside. Promise me that!" She nodded. "Promise! Say it." "Okay. I promise to stay inside." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she closed her fingers around his arm. "You should stay inside, too." "I'm not going to hide in here — waiting for them to do Lord knows what. Suppose they decide to set the house on fire?" "Would they do something like that?"I don't know. If they're crazy enough to set traps, they're crazy enough to do anything." Unwillingly, she nodded. Then her heart was in her throat as Chase opened the back door. Crouching low, he sprinted across the yard. As he did, she heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot break the morning silence. One of her brothers was shooting at him! "Chase! Chase, are you all right?" she called out.
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"Stay in there," he shouted. The gun sounded again, and she knew she had made a terrible mistake. She'd forced him to call out to her, and that meant he'd given away his location. Cursing herself for a fool, she looked around the kitchen, wondering what she could use for a weapon. Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat when she thought about attacking one of her brothers with a saucepan or a skillet. Then she sobered. She and Chase needed help — real help. But from whom? This morning, she'd stopped in his room to make his bed, because she'd wanted to touch the sheets where he'd slept. Now, as she recalled the room, she remembered a cell phone lying on the old dresser. Which meant that she could call the police. There was no hesitation on her part. The enemy out there might be her own flesh and blood, but her brothers had severed their ties with her weeks ago. She'd come to them in her hour of greatest need — when she'd had nowhere else to go. And they'd turned her away with a coldness that had cut her to the bone. Quickly she sprinted for the steps, taking them two at a time. Then she was pounding down the hall to Chase's room. The phone was on the dresser where she'd seen it. Snatching it up, she pressed the on button. The screen came to life, and she started to punch in 911. Before she could finish dialing, the display flickered and dimmed, and she saw, to her horror, that the battery indicator on the lower right corner of the screen was showing almost no power was left. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN With a sick feeling, Julienne put the cell phone where she'd found it on the dresser. It was out of power — probably because the electricity in the house wasn't turned on yet, and there was nowhere for Chase to recharge the battery. So there was no way she could summon help. Not unless she drove into town. And that would probably be too late to help Chase. No, the two of them were on their own. As she stood in the middle of the room trying to decide what to do, she heard two more shots outside. Chase? One of her brothers? She pressed the flat of her hand to her lips. She didn't know what to do, but she knew she couldn't stay up here. Feeling sick and shaky, she started down the stairs. It wasn't until she reached the bottom riser that she saw the figure standing just inside the hall. It was Hugo, his dark eyes fixed on her and a gun in his hand.
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As she stared at him, her heart started to pound so wildly in her chest that she could barely breahe. Going very still, she tried to calm herself, tried to think. Then as she raised her chin, she asked, "What are you doing here?" "Making sure Rousseau property doesn't end up in the wrong hands — Melancon hands." "It's not Rousseau property. Grandfather left it to Chase." "Chase Melancon is scum. He's stolen what's rightfully ours." "He hasn't stolen anything. It was a gift, because Grandfather knew he'd take care of Belle Vista, chèreish it, and you and Wyatt would just sell it to support your dissolute lifestyle." Hugo made a snorting sound. "Well, aren't you high-and-mighty. Gotten over that incident at the office, have you?" Her temper flared. "How dare you talk to me like that." He laughed. "I see Melancon's made you feel a lot better about yourself. It was never any use warning you about him — was it? You were hot for him when you were just a kid. Now you've come back to be his whore. A clever way to get a piece of the pie." "How can you be so coarse?" He laughed in her face, and she saw all the bitterness he'd built up over the years. She'd always been her grandfather's favorite. And she'd always known her brothers hated her for it. She'd also known that they were grasping and manipulative. It was only recently that she'd realized how truly rotten they were. But how far would they go? Would Hugo shoot his own sister? Before she could answer that question, a bloodcurdling scream from outside split the air. Then men were shouting. It sounded like more than two voices, but she couldn't be sure what was happening or who was out there. Maybe her brothers had brought reinforcements. Hugo whirled toward the door, and Julienne took that opportunity to escape. Clearing the stairs, she dashed down the hall — keeping to the right side, where the wood was intact. As soon as she passed the hole where Chase had removed the damaged boards, she angled to the left, hugging the wall as she went. "Come back here!" Hugo shouted, taking off after her. Praying that the light was too dim for Hugo to see exactly where he was going, she sprinted for the kitchen. "Stop or I'll shoot," he warned, and she braced for the impact of a bullet in her back.… CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The gun never fired. Instead, Julienne heard a terrible scream as Hugo reached the hole in the floor and plunged through. She heard him scream again. "My leg. It's my leg." Then he was silent. She found the flashlight that Chase had been using and crept to the hole. Hugo held up his hand to her, then let it drop back.
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"I'm hurt bad," he moaned. "Just lie still," she told him. "We'll get you medical help — then call the police." "I'm your brother. You can't turn me over to the police," he gasped. "You're no brother of mine. Not after what you've done. You and Wyatt are a disgrace to the Rousseau name." She saw a shadow in the hall and looked up to find a man standing in the doorway. It wasn't Chase. When she cringed away from him, he called her name. "Julienne, it's all right. I'm Chase's friend, Tyler Belton. It looks as though I picked a good time to pay you a visit." He looked inside the hole at the injured Hugo. "I met up with Chase and some trouble outside. Chase asked me to come inside to tell you he's okay, and to help you. But it looks as if you have the situation in here under control." She stared at Tyler Belton, remembering his name from long ago. One summer Chase had gotten into some trouble and been sent to a camp for delinquent boys. The experience had toughened him. But he'd also come home talking about the friends he'd made — Tyler Belton and two others boys whom she'd probably remember if she heard their names. "What — what are you doing here?" she stammered. "It's a long story. I'm a federal agent, but no one knows I'm here because of an undercover assignment that went bad." Tyler shrugged. "So I can't stick around, but I called the police for you." He moved toward the open door. "Wait." Tyler turned to face her. "I can't. I'll be back when I can." Then he was gone, and she wondered whether she'd only dreamed him. *** Hours later Julienne lay on her bed, her mind still trying to cope with the events of the past few hours. The police had carted her no-good brothers away. Chase had told her what had happened outside. Tyler had shown up, and the two of them had closed in on Wyatt, giving him no choice but to flee into the swamp — where he'd stumbled into one of the traps he'd set. That was the scream she'd heard outside — the trap springing on his foot. Only, his shoes hadn't been sturdy enough to stop the metal teeth from digging into his flesh. Now everybody was gone, and all she felt was relief that her brothers wouldn't be able to hurt her or Chase. She looked up and found him standing in the doorway, watching her. "Are you all right?" he asked, taking a step inside the room. "I mean, after everything that's happened?" She sat up and held out her arms, and he came to her, clasping her tightly. "Now I'm fine," she murmured.
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"You need to rest." "I was resting. Now I need to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted." Before he could protest again, she pressed her lips to his. At the first contact of his mouth on hers, she felt time fold back on itself. They were where they'd been before the shooting had started. Back into the eye of the hurricane. Only now her feelings were sharper — sweeter. Because in the hours since Chase had held her, she knew she'd almost lost him. "Chase, make love to me," she whispered. "You're sure that's what you want?" "Don't you?" "It doesn't matter what I want." "Yes, it does." She found his hand and brought it to her breast. He sucked in a sharp breath as he cupped his palm around her, then gently stroked his fingers back and forth across her hardened nipple. She sighed with pleasure. "Oh Lord, that's so good." "Oh yes." "Chase, I want everything — everything a man and a woman can give each other." "I want that, too. Because I love you." "Oh, Chase. I love you so much!" He searched her eyes, saw that she spoke the truth. "Tell me what you need. Tell me how to make this perfect for you." It was hard to say the words, but she knew she had to tell him what would work for her when they made love.… CHAPTER NINETEEN "I want to make love with you so much. But maybe it would be better if we don't lie down. If I don't have to worry about your weight pressing over me, I won't be frightened," Julienne whispered. Chase nodded, then slipped off his shoes and scooted back, propping his shoulders against the wall as he had the night before, and she came into his arms. He folded her close, then turned to kiss her cheek, her hair, her eyebrows, murmuring loving words. When she stayed where she was, he locked his eyes with hers and slowly lowered the zipper of her shift. Slipping his hands inside, he splayed them against her flesh. His hands played with her back, then slid up and down her ribs, touching the sides of her breasts. She sighed with pleasure, then whispered, "I want more." "All you have to do is tell me how much — and when."
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She nodded, knowing that she had to convince him that she was ready for this. So she angled away from him, then boldly pulled her dress over her head and unhooked her bra. When she'd tossed them both away, she raised her eyes to his again. His gaze was dark and heated and worshipful. "Lord, I knew you'd be beautiful," he murmured, reaching to gently touch her. "I didn't know you'd be stunning." He gave her tiny, provocative kisses as he caressed her breasts, then discarded his own shirt and pulled her into his arms — the touch of his naked skin against hers setting off shocks of pleasure along her nerve endings. He seemed to know what would feel good, what would drive her higher and yet higher, so that there was only the joy of being with him like this. Nothing with him felt forced or false. It was all so tender, so natural, so thrilling that she wondered why she had ever been afraid of giving herself into his care. His hands moved over her body, finding what gave her the most pleasure. And as he touched her and whispered words of love, he healed the pain in her heart and in her spirit. When they were both naked and he had made her ready for him, he urged her onto his lap, facing him, her legs straddling his. She felt a moment of hesitation then. He gave her a soft kiss. "chère, we don't have to go any further. Not tonight. There's plenty of time for everything." "This is the time, Chase. Our time." She raised her hips, then lowered them, bringing him inside her, a high sound escaping from her throat as his body joined with hers. He went absolutely still, and she knew he was still offering her the chance to stop. Instead she gave him a tremulous smile, and the smile turned to triumph as she took him more deeply inside her. For a trembling moment she felt overwhelmed. Then she began to move again, slowly at first. His lips were at her ear, telling her how wonderful she felt, clasping him so tightly. And his hands stroked her breasts, stroked her most sensitive flesh, building her need to heights she had never imagined. The rhythm became fast and frantic. She gasped, clutched his shoulders, feeling her body clench and release in a cascade of ecstasy. And then her joy was complete as she heard his shout of satisfaction and knew that he had followed her into paradise. Luxuriously limp, she sagged against him. "Oh, Chase," she murmured. "That was beautiful." "Oh yes," he agreed, kissing her lips and then her cheek. CHAPTER TWENTY
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Julienne still floated on a current of pleasure as Chase stretched her out beside him, pulled the sheet over them, and gathered her in his arms. "How are you?" he whispered as his lips skimmed the tender place where her hair met her cheek "Wonderful. Chase, you healed me. You knew how to make me whole again." His arm tightened around her. "I only did what I've been wanting to do for years." "You did it very well," she whispered, snuggling against him. No woman had ever been so chèreished or so loved, she thought as she relaxed in his embrace, relaxed into the most satisfying sleep she'd had in months. Some time later, she felt his lips graze her cheek. "Want to get up and have breakfast?" "Breakfast! We never did have it, did we?" "We can cook it together," he said, climbing out of bed, giving her a view of his magnificent body as he found the jeans he'd discarded and pulled them on. He probably knew she was feeling a little shy, because he left before she slipped out of bed. By the time she'd dressed in her shift again and come downstairs to the kitchen, he was already expertly frying the toast. "I see you didn't need my help." He grinned. "I can do the easy stuff." She set the table, then ducked outside and gathered some blue chicory flowers that had rooted at the side of the house, placing them in one of her grandfather's best cut-glass vases. "Nice," Chase complimented her, leaning down to nuzzle her neck. "Next time, I'll find something fancy." "I don't need fancy. I like homey." A few minutes later, as they sat across the table from each other, he rubbed his bare foot against her leg and said, "I haven't told you my plans for Belle Vista." "I'd like to hear them," she answered, leaning eagerly toward him. "I want to fix up the house — and the garden. Then I'm going to turn it into a B and B." "That sounds like a fine idea." He reached across the table and clasped her hand. "Do you want to do it with me? Do the decorating — then help me run the place?" She raised her eyes and stared at him. She saw a smile flicker on his lips. "I guess I'm really asking if you want to marry me,"
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Taken by surprise, she heard her fork clatter to her plate. His expression turned wary. "You don't like the idea?" She turned her palm up, gripped his hand more tightly. "I love the idea," she answered. "I've wanted to be with you for so long. But I thought it was just a dream that was never going to come true." "It was like that for me, too," he agreed. She saw him swallow before continuing. "Then when I came back here and found you waiting for me, I was too shocked to admit what I was really feeling." She kept her gaze steady on his. "Chase, I didn't come here by accident. Before Grandfather died, he told me about his will. He told me to come back here — to you. He said he'd realized that you and I belonged together. He wanted to give this place to both of us, and that was the only way he could do it. Because he knew if he left it to me, you'd be too proud to come back here and accept 'charity' from a Rousseau." It was Chase's turn to look stunned. "He said all that?" She nodded. "I was afraid to trust his judgment. Afraid you wouldn't want me. Then I knew that coming back to you was the only way to…to make myself whole again." "It took courage to come here." She gave a little shake of her head. "I was scared. But wanting to be with you was stronger than my fear." "Thank the Lord," he murmured. "And now I'm so happy," she whispered around the lump in her throat. "I never thought I'd be happy again. But here we are having this meal together, like it's the most natural thing in the world — and at the same time, the most astonishing, magical thing." "It is," he answered, his voice thick with emotion. "All of that." She smiled at him through her tears, clasping him more tightly, their locked hands the link to the past and their present and the rich future that waited for them.
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